Throughout my blogging life, I’ve discovered that sometimes, I have too many thoughts that don’t make the final edit just because they are too incoherent and irrelevant to a larger topic. Call me narcissistic but I do revere my own ideas, no matter how small and insignificant they are. Since I will just mess up my blog like a pigsty if I upload all these thoughts as posts, I decided to just reserve a single page for them.

This section is called The UNCONSCIOUS but obviously, everything here is consciously written. They are raw (though not completely raw because nothing is ever completely raw or fresh). Most of the time, they may not make sense but as I said, I respect my ideas. If I can’t be immortal, then at least, maybe I can save them and be their messiah. I talk big but really, I just want to write.

Welcome to The UNCONSCIOUS.



It is cowardice to save oneself. But you can rationalize that by saying we’ve been equipped with such an instinct even before we made up the word “cowardice.” Still, even intellectualization doesn’t reduce the guilt of fleeing for your life.


It’s been one of my greatest fears that I think deep inside, I’m a coward.


We can’t help brandishing our sicknesses in front of everyone’s face like they’re things to be proud of. We are sick.


Is it the absence of hope that I’m feeling? Which is why I can’t plan and go for something like a starved tiger? I’ve always attributed it to laziness. Once upon a time, I also considered myself belonging to Nietzsche’s class of slaves. Does it even help to categorize things? No, of course not.


When you want to clarify things to yourself, you have this urge to clarify yourself to others, too — as if they are really important to you. Maybe they are important to you more than you want to acknowledge.


I want to be melodramatic. I want to enter the TV screen despite my loud screams that say otherwise. I want to be part of the best love story ever played out in front of people’s eyes. Because if no one’s going to see it, then what use is being melodramatic and romantic and beautiful? Maybe the greatest kind of love is the one that’s executed as a performance art.


I’ve got to preserve my mind because it’s all I’ve got, but it’s slipping away — into disease or just contented dormancy, I don’t really know. It’s an everyday battle to keep it fresh. Like keeping a slab of meat fresh in room temperature with large flies swarming all around.


It’s my consolation prize for not being who I want to be, that I want to preserve the originator of that idea, my mind. At least preserve the thing that conceived your notion of greatness if greatness can’t possibly be achieved.


Why be great? Because greatness lifts you up from the crowd, so the crowd acknowledges your existence. Appearing is not enough. It’s existing I strive for.


You’re tired of philosophy but I’m tired of life. Life begets philosophy and philosophy begets life. If I philosophize enough, maybe I can give birth to a new kind of life. Although to be honest, this rarely works. It’s often you spew a philosophy, believe it, live it, forget it, and return to the same old you, only more frustrated.


How much do I love her? So much more than I can presently imagine. I know that when she leaves, I’ll break apart into a hundred thousand pieces all longing to be with her again. But to say I feel like that everyday would be lying. Love is a forgetful son of a bitch. Or maybe it’s just me.


I can hate her like I hate other people. I just expect so much from her, like she has this responsibility, a duty for me. And when she fails, I grow horns and I want to destroy everything.


Sometimes I do give up. I just hope that things will be back to normal and that we’ll hug each other like nothing happened. It is laziness. Or probably cowardice. Or lack of hope. Or a capacity to just die out like a battery. I can’t say but it’s there. But maybe that’s part of loving, the mute periods of loving where you wait for the next tide to come.


And there are times I just wanna test her, really see how far she would go to beg. I feel power in my cruelty. I just want to feel how deep is her love for me. I imagine myself whipping her back, slashing it in a hundred places. I want to save her from myself. But oftentimes, I succumb to my own master, my ego, and I let that devil rape us both however he wants it.


It’s true I wonder about other kinds of life. What if I were like this? What if I were with that person? At first the picture would usually look good, but I know I’m deceiving myself. If I can’t get it right the first time, how can I get it right the 22nd time?


I am evil.


I am so much more evil than she knows. I can’t help it. I just assume other people are like that, too.


Do I have a skeleton in my closet? A giant one. If I let it out, it would crush me and I’d die instantly.


But that’s not how I live. It’s not how people should live. Freeing oneself from our closet skeletons? “Inner demons”? It’s not the way to live. That’s the way to go mad. I don’t want to turn loony. I want to stay in this scary and senseless rational life. One of the reasons for that is that I love her so much. And I love a lot of people so much.


People don’t like to be cheesy. They can’t handle the melancholy. I guess that makes me different because I thrive in melancholy. That’s why I’m a cheese and mush machine. But I like to think that people are all made of cheddar inside, no matter how tough, no matter how stupid, or intellectual. No matter how rebellious or numb. We are wells of emotions but we’ve been trained to be cool and simplistic. I can’t live like that.


One day, I will be happy, and I will sound different, and I will take you out on a sunny day.


But now I must go down on my knees, suck the huge cock of my sickness like a real nasty whore.


Waiting kills me. I’ve got to know what happened to that interview. Fuck all the people who make me wait. Waiting is a waste of my time and time is the largest of my resources, my only true asset.


I want money.


It’s all about money and love, love and money. You get the two, you’ve got a good life.


I got love most of the time but money, I never had enough of it. Wait, come to think of it, I never had enough of these two. It’s not possible to have enough of these two.


I’d really be surprised if I reach 50. I’m just 24 and I feel like an old man, physically, emotionally, intellectually. That doesn’t mean I consider myself learned enough. Just that I seem to have lost my fire already.


I’ve got this desire to make people see through me. Especially women. I want women to see through me. Usually, I don’t care about what men think. It’s women. I want them to disregard my physical appearance and see the person that I see in my mind. I am a creepy fool.


I hate rich people, especially people who love to think they’re not rich but clearly, they are. Fuck all of them. They have everything and they still want to steal your hate. Fuck them greedy motherfuckers.


I think I’ll be spending more time in this section from now on. The freedom in here is a breath of fresh air.


I wonder how I slept before. True sleep can only be achieved when you’re lying with someone whose familiar warmth engulfs you, creating an impenetrable shield of safety and shared experiences that lulls you to a smooth passage to the world inside your mind. But I did sleep long hours before I met her. I must have been really tired of life to sleep like that.


People are always surprised when we don’t talk or mingle. I’m sorry if we sometimes act rude when that happens. I guess we’re just too contented with everything to do anything.


I consider myself lucky for having her as my girlfriend — someone who knows a world vastly different from mine. I could have ended up with someone so completely like me: insecure, introvert, superfluous, nonsensical, forgetful, dark, empty, hopeless, lazy and uninspired. If that happened, I think my life would have been a nightmare. But when she arrived, all sorts of enchanted doors opened, showing mesmerizing landscapes I’ve never seen before. While I am in no position to recommend such a partner to anyone, I do testify that opposites can work like a miracle.


I’ve always believed I can find my own way in the world; that no matter how sensible, rational and logical your way is — even if it’s the best possible way out there, the straightest line to the goal — I can still find my own way and it would be better in the end because it was mine. That’s how narcissistic I am.


When I think about it now, I can understand Filipinos who become nasty when they suddenly amass wealth abroad. Because right now, as I’m going through this particularly financially challenging period of my life, I am swearing that I’ll make people pay when I finally get my hands on some money. Vengeance is my top priority, financially speaking. No one’s rich until he flaunts it and I wouldn’t feel rich if nobody kisses my ass.


Deprivation really makes us monsters. Same thing happens in the MRT every morning. Starve people with trains and they act like a pack of wolves when one finally opens its doors.


Can “relative deprivation” be eradicated? If everyone were rich, would people still feel “relatively deprived” of a thing or two? Maybe that’s a myth. Maybe all we need is a constant supply of material wealth and health to be peaceful human beings.


But I’m deceiving myself. Was it Michel Foucault who said power derives from difference? If power gives meaning, then there’s no meaning without difference. If so, it could be that this life is only meaningful to some extent because of the status quo. Maybe when we’re all rich, the whole point of living becomes moot.


What if the whole point of living is the usually unconscious, but happy idea that others are dying?


We’re always told not to take glee from the misery of others. Isn’t that hypocritical? We’ve also been told to go for the victory. But victory, in essence, is rejoicing in one’s power which is affirmed due to the failure of another. How can one celebrate victory if he cannot be gleeful of the loser’s misery?


It’s always been one of my fantasies for my mind to be transported back to my old self in elementary or high school. It would be amusing to see if I could make things better or just screw them up more. The funny thing is, aside from having more balls to stand up to teachers and to classmates, nothing else would probably change, and I’d still have horrible scores in math exams.


Have you heard of someone and thought “What the f*ck? Why is he so stupid?” Well, it just came to me that a bunch of people probably think that of me regularly. It’s kind of funny because no matter how intelligent you are, someone is bound to think you’re a dim-witted douchebag.


She knows that it all boils down to jealousy.


Why do I feel ashamed to admit that? Do I feel so godly that I can’t openly admit liking someone so much that I feel jealous? No, I don’t think so. I think it has more to do with guarding myself, making sure that I don’t put all my eggs in one basket. What a sick thought. I guess I should just make it a point to admit it when I’m jealous, although the thought of such upfront honesty is revolting.


I remember Nietzche saying that a real man is always more complex than a fictional character. I think he said something like that. But the more I look at my life and the more I describe myself, the more I feel like I fit the profile of a fictional character to a T. My inner and outer motivations are so straightforward they would make a cliche novel that most people wouldn’t be interested in downloading as an e-book.


I’ve been so used to earning while not working that I’m afraid when I truly work again, I’ll go nuts.


My thoughts are encased in the cheapest medium around these days: the free blog. I told one of my classmates in the university a long time ago that my dream was to be one of the books you’ll find in an old library. Of course, given that my blog server wouldn’t go bankrupt or they wouldn’t bring down un-updated blogs in the future, this medium is still more durable than the medium I dream of. Still, I can’t help thinking everything here is cheap as hell precisely because it might last forever or at least an amazingly long period of time. Paper’s fragility is still infinitely more beautiful.


I get tired of all these pieces of wisdom. I assure you, I don’t plan them out. I just write my thoughts down and I frustrate myself whenever they come out as hideously graceful and all-knowing like the previous one. It’s this effort to try to make sense of everything or give it some kind of overlooked meaning that’s making it so cheap. My knowledge is cheap but it’s all I’ve got and it’s what comes out of my mouth. I’m hopeless.


Making someone happy because you love her — an enjoyable passion at the start, but a cause of concern and regular frustration once you start to run out of magic tricks.


Despite all my failures, I know I can still make it. I know what I can’t do and I know what I can do. People can get tired of me saying it, but I’ll say it again and again and again, “Someday…”


There are a multitude of annoying people around me. Among the most annoying ones are those that strut the streets like they’re fucking worth a spit. These people were already rich before they were born or they were born in upper middle class or elite families. They fill up my life with fake evidences of their worth — gadgets, lifestyles, food, etc. — and they seem proud of what they’ve achieved. Well, what the fuck, these people’s brains are shallower than a freakin’ teaspoon. They irritate me. They make me want to burn all their things in a giant heap and take a crap on it. It’s just soil anyway when it finally decomposes. They’re nothing special and I could care less about their taste in all areas of life because they’re copies of a million other copies. We are ruled by fucking pirated people.


I am a resentful guy.


Words aren’t enough to illustrate how resentful I am with the world.


I am so resentful that my resentment is one of my greatest treasures and I won’t let anybody take it. I feel like it’s a child of mine, an honest, amusing child of mine. You can accuse me of being naive and crazy, but my resentment will always be as innocent and truthful as the earth.


To hell with rich people. They won’t get to heaven, anyway. It’s Jesus’ rule. No wealthy guys in heaven. It’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of god. So I guess I’ll just see them all in hell and laugh at their barbecued asses.


When I was alone before, I used to think of people as dipshits. That kind of worked for me because I was able to distance myself from them, try to exclusively be a part of this more “intellectual” discourse by more enlightened and educated people. But the moment I reintegrated myself with society, there’s nowhere to go but down. It’s like quicksand. The more you keep on flailing, the lower you sink until your mouth’s filled with the sand of death. Now, truthfully, I react to every croak and whine of people not worth a single dime. I’ve also lost my reverence for these intellectuals, as well. Now everyone’s a dipshit and I’m the biggest, most annoying dipshit of them all.


I’ll always remember this part of my life as one of the happiest and the most challenging. One of my friends used to tell me, “Just enjoy it.” I’ve been able to, but not in an easy way, no.


What if people don’t agree with you? What if they think you’re this and that? I don’t know. I’ll meet them in hell whatever happens.


I wish I could say that to all people who have something to say to me. “That’s fine and all but I’ll meet you in hell, regardless.”


See, the huge difference between me and other people is that they start out with the assumption that life is meaningful, and they strive so hard to see that meaning only to be broken in the end. I start out with the assumption that life is nonsensical and I do all I can to find a new meaning that’s beautiful enough to my ears.


Of course, I may never find that meaning. I wouldn’t be surprised if my last words are “What — the — fuck?”


I treat FB like a classroom filled with students and I got to shout my one-liners to get the attention of all the cool guys and chicks. What a moron I am.


Life is pretentious! What else can I say?




I often wonder if it’s possible to live without commitments; living without bonds, without hurting other people and yourself in the process of trying to live. But I go back full circle and realize when all commitments have been cut, you still have that commitment to yourself: the commitment to live a life worth living. And then what follows is another train of desires to connect to others because that’s the only definition of a “life worth living” that I can think of.


I am used to pleasing people. Throughout my school life, I’ve tried to pleased my parents, teachers and classmates with grades. When they feel proud of me, I feel proud of myself. I guess that kind of deep training has forever etched its mark on me. So now, I am not used to failing and when people tell me I fail, my entire being just grieves. It’s like I forget all my achievements and I just feel like a total loser.


What if I refuse to react? Will people give up on me and just let me be thinking that I’ve already gone crazy?


The future is as dark as ever. It’s actually even getting darker because I’ve not been paying much attention before.


There’s a need in me to sing a love song and just feel grateful for singing it. I hope that need is quenched someday soon.


These days, I feel like an actor who was given a shitty supporting role as a boring villain in a film. There’s no choice but to play the part, receive the audience’s hate, and collect the wages — whatever form they take.


I hope my desire holds up. It has produced the most beautiful things I’ve seen.


Up to now, I still get the cold treatment from people because of how I look and behave. Part of me wants to yell at them for their closed-mindedness but a large part of me just wants to let them be because I probably would’ve done the same thing if I were “normal.” When confronted with such a situation, my head just screams, “This is bullshit” and I swallow the bitter pill.


If all the people who love me decided to leave me, will my love for myself be sufficient to push me to live on? I can’t really say, though clearly, living without someone loving you is a valid reason for ending your life.


People will finally understand you once you’re already lying comfortably in your coffin. That’s a fact.


I’ll admit that sometimes, I just wanna tie people up and stuff socks in their mouths just to seal off their stupidity. I really do.


I just read this whole page again and it made me sick. Yeah, whoever wrote this got a point. But he was sick. Is he well now? Not really. But he’s not as sick as THAT. That thing’s crazy. Fuck that shit. I’m out of here for now.


Get a girl and live.


2 thoughts on “The UNCONSCIOUS

  1. Life sometimes is a funny ground for funny foons ……

    1. It’s all fun and games ’til someone cracka their head open

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