IC

EUPHORIC
It's your eyes I see.


ECSTATIC
Your voice calling me.

NOSTALGIC
Of your touch and our song.

BEATEN
Out of rhyme
Untuned

FRANTIC
Of our proximity.

MELANCHOLIC
Now.

FRIGHTENED
Still am.

Welcome!

I've decided to share my works. My journal is the only one who knows me best. This is my way of baring myself to the world. This blog would be an extension of my journal (I'll try). This is my journey to vulnerability: my openness to and acceptance of the truth.

Just a guide to the contents:

CONVERSATIONS 
These are actual conversations I had with friends, strangers, whoever I talk with who in their own oblivious way/s taught me a lesson. While I was traveling last year, I realize that there will be people who would obliviously utter words which will hit you so hard in the chest and they won't even know it. These may be what you needed to hear to help you in what you're going through, the facts you are running from, or what you fail to realize or to articulate: just like songs expressing what you can't put into words. Thought of sharing them as a way of paying it forward.

WORD VOMIT
These are works which I would recite out loud possibly in front of an audience should I get the courage to do so.

THOUGHTS
Scribbles in my journal, or a friend's work/s which I think is worth sharing.

WORDS IN FORMATION
Poetry

BEAUTIFUL PIECES BY BEAUTIFUL MINDS
Some of my favorite literary pieces.

THOUGHTS CAUGHT ON A SNAPSHOT
Because I believe that pictures can say a lot more than I can even if I try.

Conversations: 1

Friend: Infairrness, mas madali magsulat ngayon. hahahaha di ko lam kung bakit. (In fairness, it's easier to write nowadays. I don't know why.)

Me: Because you're more honest. More open. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable. I think that's why we have to be in our lonely place sometimes, that's when we are vulnerable. And when your barriers are down, the truth sinks in.


... punta ka muna sa lonely place mo (go to your lonely place). Listen to the quiet, reconnect with the world. Baka marinig mo na yung softest whisper na binubulong ng puso mo sayo (maybe you'll finally hear the softest whisper your heart has been trying to tell you.)

The world has an unusual way of sending its message.

Friend: All this time we still yearn for love, no? It's not money, not human being. It's love in all its forms.

Me: Yes. Maybe that's why we love traveling. We are searching for the right place to put our roots down.

Sabi mo nga (you said) we have very busy minds, and maybe that why we miss to hear the essential

-------

even the softest whisper makes a sound if we would open our hearts and listen.

Bad Taste

Don't call me 'sweetie'

it leaves a bitter taste of impression.

of all the taste, that's the one which should not be associated with me.

I can be coffee, in all its bitterness, 

only few could appreciate

sugar can cause a rush

but I got the kicks needed to feel alive:

awakened senses.

Don't call me 'sweetie'

I know that tone: condescending.

when I'm right, tell me.

but not after a long arduous argumentation.

I am putting my best in this battle.

I know I'll win the war.

don't cheat by conceding.

it's not me you're appeasing.

it's your ego you're mending.

and I am far from pleased.

I want a sincere admission of defeat.

Don't call me 'sweetie'

I don't pee honey nor shit gold.

I shit the same shit of worst,

and sweet is not what my discharge should be called.

I am not a taste.

Not even a figure of speech.

I am a person. Literally.

No endearments can change that.

Don't call me 'sweetie'

no endearments please.

I am not a dear.

not to you who calls me 'sweetie'

because it makes me soft and weak in your eyes.

          I am not a 'sweetie'

nor will I ever be.

 -----

D.B.R.S, 17 Feb 2014

The Pin

I'll stop whatever I'm doing at your call
I'll drop the book I'm reading to talk to you.
I stopped being me for a moment
Just to be your idea of me.

You met me. I met you.
It got complicated.

You met me.
I knew you.
It got complicated.

You just met me when
I got to know you.

We're stuck.

You in your bubble. Me in reality.
Two worlds apart.

----
 D.B.R.S
11 Feb 2014. On the long queue for editing.

Hide and Seek (but mostly seeking)

They say that when you go looking for something,

You won’t find it.

I searched for you but I didn’t see you.

Maybe I was looking on the wrong side that when you were supposed to look into my eyes

You look into somebody else’s.

Maybe because I was not wearing my eye glasses

And it made you blend in with everything I see: A blur

It’s like water color painting only it is bathing in water so

I couldn’t make a figure out of you

Maybe it was on a busy street

I couldn’t make you stand out from the crowd of faceless figures

I couldn’t highlight you enough to make you stand out

So you ended up like the lines in books which killed me

I keep thinking “I’ll highlight you later”

But when I remember, I’m already nth books away and I’ll say “I’ll highlight it again the next time I read it” but I don’t. So you, the quote which sucker punched me squarely in the chest drowned in the sea of words on print in this X book gathering dust in the corner, waiting for me to pick you up.

Until you disappeared. Until I went on looking.

Until I could no longer find you.

Sometimes when I go look for things, it is usually near where I am but I miss it because I am too occupied that I forgot I was looking for it. I know where I left it but when I look for it. It is no longer there.

Like how you were always in the hallways

And I would always pass by.

And maybe I noticed but I kept thinking

He’ll be standing on the same spot tomorrow.

And the next tomorrow

Until the last tomorrow

Until I stopped looking forward to tomorrows

Because you were no longer there.

And you were nowhere to be found.

Maybe,

We used to be in the same space, breathing the same air

If only I walked with my chin up

Not minding my steps

If only I was not such a klutz to mind my steps

If only I had worn my flats instead of the stupid stilettos

If only I were say four inches taller to be able to see past these walls of people’s backs

If only I had studied my lessons the night before

So I wouldn’t have my head buried in a book or in any reading material

If only I spent less time stalking someone in Facebook

And had enough sleep

If only I did what I ought to do then I would’ve notice.

I would’ve seen you and stared at you and repeated the mantra “look this way look this way look this way look this way” oh shit he looked at me

Until you look my way.

I would’ve noticed what the universe was trying to tell me. I would’ve seen you. There was no way I couldn’t.

But I didn’t.  The time I turned around was the exact moment you turned your back on me.

Maybe I already saw you somewhere. We got common friends; we got common people we’re irritated with. We booed the same band. Maybe you hated one of my favorite songs; maybe it was you I overheard saying something I totally found stupid.  We barely knew our world once overlapped. Like two circles in a Venn diagram, that space where our worlds intersect was enough to draw us closer but the timing drew our worlds apart until we became two circles apart.

There were always people to meet, schedules to follow, to do lists to accomplish, tasks to finish,

Places to visit, heartaches to be tended, decisions to be made.

There were always things happening at the same time you were supposed to happen to me.

Like the lost things I am looking for. If only I knew I needed them, I would’ve kept them.

Like you, if only I knew then I would’ve kept you.

I just didn’t know who you will be.

And that time, I just didn’t care.

People say that when you are looking for something

You won’t find it. Try not looking for it, and it will pop up out of nowhere.

It will find you, when you stop looking.

I was zoning out but it was not on the street.

It was busy

There was a crowd

I was meeting everybody

I was wearing my glasses

I was still sleepy

I was busy

But with all the buzz

With all the chaos around me,
I took a moment to step back,

turned around

Looked up and said, 'Hi’

I stopped looking. For a while.

-DBRS

A piece on the one that got away or maybe the one who didn’t even went away because you never had the balls to catch it then. The Maybes and the If Onlys but not in its entirety. An excerpt of a could have been.

Sea

I am afraid of seas.I keep thinking that it's going to drown me.

I have been afraid for a long time that instead of diving directly into the water. I always stay by the shore knowing that whatever waves that touched it, it will eventually go away. It’s always been that way—like waves hitting a shore--- sometimes hitting the shore violently so intense that it will carry you away, sometimes it drowns the shore, sometimes it hits you hard and leave you gasping for air, but there are times when it is calm. It can be any way but none the less, abrupt, sudden like death.

But there are times that I would give in to the urge to go far from the shore, venture into the deeper part of the waters and put my fears behind,  indulge in the feeling of not touching the ground. Floating, dulling my senses and just stay in that moment of peace but even with the safety of the moment, I get uncomfortable.

I’ve been used to the waves in the shore and the occasional floating but with you, I want more and I want it all.

You are the sea to my sunset. No matter how long and how far I am from you, I always end up with you.

I see myself clearly in you that I am starting to rediscover beauty and believe that I am capable of it.   I thought I can no longer be anything but ordinary but the thought of being with you again turns me into all synonyms and pictures of breath taking.

I’ll always end up with you that it makes me look forward to every ending. I know that I could rest and lay down my fears, even in full clothing you can strip me naked but you loved me even in my bareness that I no longer feel afraid. You engulf my entirety slowly that even in your vastness I feel secure, until all resistance fade. Gently tucking me in slowly until  I am drowning beautifully in your depth;  inch by inch and all at once everything I am and I will ever be. When you pull me close to you, when you make us one, you take all of me, not a piece is left behind: every piece that burns which cannot be defied, every heat that in nature kills, every light that is welcomed and blocked. 

 It is with only with you that I want to disappear, so take all of me. In you, I’ll drown willingly.

----

-D.B.R.S, 9 April 2014

Lately (That is whenever I check your social networking sites)

If there's a way to contact you at four in the morning, even if it might disturb your beauty rest I'll send you a message. A missive with 160 characters more or less which I probably thought of for hours, days, or weeks, and may or may not be sent.  I can think of a lot of things to say but I don’t know if you will even listen.

If I could send you a message, I would. Be it in a bottle, in a picture, in an envelope or in a song. I will try to be descriptive and poetic. I will put all of my creative juices; force these creative juices to come out for one message. Even if I won't get a response just the thought of you reading what I put so much effort into would be enough to ease my mind.


I won't apologize; I won't even stop even if you ask me to, even if it annoys you. I can be persistent when I want to be and with you I’ll make my face a hundred times more thick that it already is and I’ll just pester you. But you might get annoyed and it will destroy my castles in the air but that's the only way to reach you so I will not stop. I will not apologize.

I want to let you know that your craft holds a huge spot in my heart. It fuels a passion which I continue to suppress because of fear and insecurity. What you do is what I've regretted running away from. What you say never fails to give that glass shattering moment of epiphany that it always leaves me pondering and speechless—well not really speechless because all I get to say is “DAMN!”

You see, it’s not even about your looks, I don’t know who you really are except for the glimpses which you let us see through your work. No, it was not your voice, it was not your corny jokes either or your futile attempt to be funny. Fine, you are funny. But the first time I encountered you, I did not see you, but I heard you. It was what you were saying, the words and the way you say what you were saying which tugged on my heart strings until it made a connection with my brain that I could not stop not knowing more about you and thank God for social networking sites because it feeds me my daily dose of you. Your sites are not updated though but whenever I see you on my news feed; I’ll have this happy feeling that at least I knew something about you.

If there's a way to talk to you about all of this then I would. Just the thought of being able to connect with you gives me so much happiness that I won't even notice if the sun won't shine for hours or days maybe. I can forget about the sun and the heavenly bodies and my fascination for trees if I could only talk to you.

This will be because for the first time in my life I want to say what I feel but the only person I want to talk about you is YOU.


If only there's a way to tell you all of this then I would but sadly, the reality of our circumstances sinks in so I'll just close my eyes and succumb to sleep.

-----
D.B.R.S 10 Aug 2013, 4:55 a.m(GMT+8) in line for revisions, for a muse so far out of reached but not impossible to be reached.

Heavenly bodies

I am not sure what inspired this one but I wrote this on my phone last 11 Aug 2013. I just had this feeling of not confining this text in my phone. This is a rough draft of an excerpt of a piece which I will be working on.

"He will ask you if you want the moon and he will promise to give it to you. He will use metaphors of heavenly bodies to express what he feels about you. He might give you moon but the day after tomorrow, you see him giving another moon to somebody else. You will realize that each moon though unique is not the only one of its kind which exists.
Now you look up the sky and hope for a meteoriod and mistake it for a falling star so you could make a wish. But my dear, a wish is as uncertain as the future that all we can do is hope. Do not keep wishing for the moon, for a falling star. Long for the sun. A ball of hot gas, a star! But not a typical star and yes there are a lot of stars but only few will dare to try and give it to you and if one returns scorched but empty handed. He might not be able to give you the sun but he will give you his world."

I am still waiting for that inspiration to come for me to finish this piece.

----
D.B.R.S, 11 Aug 2013, at 12:32 a.m (GMT+8)

My sympathy goes to the light posts

I was walking with friends one day at a city within the walls when suddenly, a realization hit me. I kept looking at this erect piece of metal with bulb stationed along the streets to provide light when the sun is absent from the sky. It sure looks stylish, very apt to preserve the archaic vibe of the city but I noticed that it looked lonely. I was plagued by what I saw that when I got home I wrote a little piece:

"The melancholy of a light post: it stands alone. You can't find group of light posts together. There is always distance separating them. You don't even have a name for a group of light posts: for a group of flowers, the arrangement is called a bouquet. But what would you call an arrangement of light posts? They light up the dark but are taken for granted even if they are serving their purpose. If accidents happened, they would be blamed. And they stay in one place. Witness a lot of things happening but can't do anything. Helplessness. Yes, at its height."

Writing this here made me wonder if it's a light post or a mirror I see.

----
D.B.R.S, piece written 7 July 2013, 2:54 a.m (GMT +8)

Everything but nothing has changed

Alone, melancholic
Suddenly, a thought of you popped up
No rhyme
No reason
No warning
The thought caught me by surprise

At first it was not you, then it IS you
The reason, it became YOU
It's been years, have you noticed?
I never forgot
Have you been deceived?

It was not me, I do not know if it's me
Someone came so close, so dear
I decided to disappear
Without anything but a blog entry
I do not know if you read it.
But I hope you did.

If you did, then I think you knew
What I felt when I'm with you,
About you
When you left.

But it's you and the one who was not me, and me.
In a tangled mess
Not tangled and not a mess
But it was not me, I do not know if it's me.
And it's a mess.


-----
D.B.R.S, 19 Feb 2013 10:50p.m (GMT +8)

The unsaid

Silence hugs our team as the news of our teammate's loss was
announced.
I thought of what I should say or do but then I just sighed
and suddenly a though pops into my head "I don't know
how it feels to lose your mother
but I know how it feels to lose someone so dear and I know grief."
but then, will my words have any effect? I'm not afraid to die
but I don't like the feeling of being left behind.
Sometimes, it skips my mind that life is so short and unpredictable.
 And that the last goodbyes are always left unsaid.
the last thank yous are always unheard by the person
you are telling it to.And what's left is most of the time, regrets.
Regrets for words unuttered, thanks unsaid, apologies never
made, forgiveness never given.
Coz you know what,
no matter how expressive you are there
will always be regrets on the should've beens.
So how do we deal with this? We just move on? remember them? But remembering them means remembering the regrets?

How do we remember without remembering the regrets?




-written 27 Feb 2013

Not forgetting

Beyond Forgetting 
by: Rolando Carbonell


For a moment I thought I could forget you.
For a moment I thought I could still the restlessness in my heart.
I though the past could no longer haunt me – nor hurt me.
How wrong I was!
For the past, no matter how distant, is as much a part of me as life itself.
And you are part of that life. You are so much a part of me — of my dreams, my early hopes, my youth and my ambitions – that in all tasks I can’t help remembering you.
Many little delights and things remind me of you. Yes, I came. And would my pride mock my real feelings? Would the love song, the sweet and lovely smile on your face, be lost among the deepening shadows?
I have wanted to be alone. I thought I could make myself forget you In silence and in song… And yet I remembered.
For who could forget the memory of the once lovely, the once beautiful, the once happy world such as ours?
I came because the song that I kept through the years is waiting to be sung. I cannot sing it without you. The song when sung alone will lose the essence of its tune, because you and I had been one.
I have wanted this misery to end, because it is part of my restlessness. Can’t you understand? Can’t you divine the depth and tenderness of my feelings towards you?
Yes, can’t you see how I suffer in this even darkness without you?
You went away because you mistook my silence for indifference. But silence, my dear, is the language of my heart.
How could I essay the intensity of my love when silence speaks a more eloquent tone? But perhaps, you didn’t understand…
Remember, I came, because the gnawing loneliness is there and will be lost until the music is sung, until the poem is heard, until the silence is understood…until you come to me again.
For you alone can blend music and memory into one consuming ecstasy. You alone…


----------------------
EXACTLY.
It has been a year since this poem was introduced to me and yet, the effect whenever I read this never changes.

Why I write

I write because I have thoughts which will be more sensible when they are put into print. Thoughts which can be of help to myself when situations arise and to others when their words fail them.

I write without stopping not mindful of the grammar or even the legibility of what I write. I jot down everything--in the end it looks like I'm drawing hieroglyphics or that my piece is written by a chicken but then again the effort is more noticeable than the cause. The physical set up of my writing is the effect of trying to catch up with my thoughts. You see, a thought is the very essence of writing. I believe that every thought is precious, it should be in black and white. A thought once it slipped your mind is hard to recover. And when you try to recover it you will be plagued by technicalities.

Writing is writing without thinking. Writing is writing only with your thoughts with the best way to express them.

I write because I am compelled to fulfill my pen's worth--- the reason for its existence; to combine letters which would make sense or even if it wouldn't, as long as its ink will be exhausted because it will sink into uselessness by fulfilling its sole purpose.

I write because it's the only way I can express myself. It's just me, my pen and a piece of paper. This way, my world is simple.

I write not because I know words also not because I want to flaunt my vocabulary. I don't want to complicate my message by using highfalutin words because using such do not ensure maximum comprehension of what I write. When words want to take over me, I give in. Words are the result of the combination of letters which eventually made sense.

I write because I want to be understood not to boast.

I write because my emotions drive me to do so.

I write because I can.
--------------

These I just have to put into words to serve as a reminder when I get scared of looking at a blank piece of paper, when I start doubting my right hand's ability to guide a pen and be lost in the world of thoughts and words.


--D.B.R.S

Somewhere I have never travelled...

Somewhere I have never travelled

by E.E Cummings

somewhere I have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which I cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

-----
I want to experience this journey.

Tick Tock II

I look at the clock, it stopped ticking.
I look at myself and stopped waiting.
Am I the only one who's tired?
Or the only one who tried?

For years I have kept it,
Under lock and key for extreme secrecy
I have ignored all opportunities
Thinking I might ruin what we have
Only to find out that all we had is nothing.

The present is not different from the past, only less talking.
But when did we ever talk?
We're both listeners and
You were also gifted with a keen eye for observation.

but

How come you never heard how my heart beats when you're near
or
How my heart somersaults by the mere mention of your name?

How come you never noticed how my cheeks turn red when you give me a compliment?
How come you never took note of the glitter in my eyes when I look at you,
of the way I looked at you?

Am I really good in hiding?
Or you are good in ignoring?
Nonetheless, we were able to keep what we had: NOTHING.

--D.B.R.S