to liberate the world, one has to liberate oneself.
break free from inhibitions, dig to the core of your anima, set your soul in a conflagration of desires.
love someone, for the state fears those who love. for love is a weapon far destructive than any bomb in the world's arsenal.
run, lose yourself. turn away from the norms that became the chasm of love and lover. if you are a woman who loves a woman, or a man who loves a man, or a being who loves both, or someone who loves someone, among others, follow the cry of your heart.
love not because of security and stability, but because of the enigma it brings you the moment you find someone who takes your breath away.
the world is cruel, yet it's sweet. it is a concoction of feelings, desires, heartaches, bitterness, suffering, bliss, et cetera, et cetara.
bring down the walls of injustice, the barriers that confine you from illicit longings. be insane!
be weird, if it means being free from the dictates of rottenness.
confront oppression as you confront death; passionately.
seek yourself, the sacrosanct of your existence.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
not a story for a lovely morning
i really don't know what to write about, i just feel like pushing my pen down. i haven't had enough night time sleep the past few days, close to living up to the definition of hominus nocturnus in vampiric tales. but in reality, i'm far from immortality.
i woke up at around 5:00am, thanks to my nagging mother uttering endlessly towards my father. i'm used to her echoing ballad of curses and sermons but not during the wee hours where i'm still struggling to slumber. it really couldn't get better than this.
one thing i really don't like in a woman is a nagging breathhole. haha don't get me wrong here. i love my mother, i even slept beside her the other night because my baby sister's using my room's 'borrowed' pc to finish her research paper (which gave me a hell of a headache to edit and edit and edit). however, if i am to commit, i'd choose someone who doesn't talk like an automatic rifle is stuffed in her mouth firing at 3000 rounds a minute. haha
i rouse myself from my odor-stricken mat and made my way to the fridge, hoping to grab myself a bottle of beer only to find a pitcher of water and a bunch of eggs (not a pretty site for a thirsty fellow). i gulped a couple of glass, head for the john and relieved myself of a deceitful morning glory (hey, i only took a piss and did not do the 'm' word).
as i made my way back to my room, i barely noticed the ceasefire. i was again relieved by the silence of the atmosphere and tucked myself, trying hard again to journey into slumberland.
and then again, a grenade was lunched, followed by a thunderous scream from my mother's bazoo. a maraud of words of unwisdom echoed through the walls, and my journey was cut short.
when is this going to end!?
i woke up at around 5:00am, thanks to my nagging mother uttering endlessly towards my father. i'm used to her echoing ballad of curses and sermons but not during the wee hours where i'm still struggling to slumber. it really couldn't get better than this.
one thing i really don't like in a woman is a nagging breathhole. haha don't get me wrong here. i love my mother, i even slept beside her the other night because my baby sister's using my room's 'borrowed' pc to finish her research paper (which gave me a hell of a headache to edit and edit and edit). however, if i am to commit, i'd choose someone who doesn't talk like an automatic rifle is stuffed in her mouth firing at 3000 rounds a minute. haha
i rouse myself from my odor-stricken mat and made my way to the fridge, hoping to grab myself a bottle of beer only to find a pitcher of water and a bunch of eggs (not a pretty site for a thirsty fellow). i gulped a couple of glass, head for the john and relieved myself of a deceitful morning glory (hey, i only took a piss and did not do the 'm' word).
as i made my way back to my room, i barely noticed the ceasefire. i was again relieved by the silence of the atmosphere and tucked myself, trying hard again to journey into slumberland.
and then again, a grenade was lunched, followed by a thunderous scream from my mother's bazoo. a maraud of words of unwisdom echoed through the walls, and my journey was cut short.
when is this going to end!?
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Anathema!
I am on the brink of self-termination, all because it seems my life is heading nowhere, a dead-end, a mess. Every night before I retire myself to the state of unconsciousness, I pray that I won’t make it in the morning. I pop a dozen of valium pills to expedite my expiration but I guess my body’s too immune to give in. Probably I’ll utilize cyanide next time.
I lie in my odor-filled chamber reading novels, trying to be productive in my imagining. And in the past months I have read quite a number, which I used to think was very a impossible ‘achievement’ for a fellow of very narrow attention span as myself. And when I ran out of books to burn in my thoughts, I resort to browsing over an ancient Webster and a pocket thesaurus enriching my poverty-stricken vocabulary. In my hunger for words I wrote poetry when boredom strikes. And so I dubbed my poetry, if you consider them as such, ‘products of unproductiveness’, and proclaimed myself a poet in hybernation.
I admit to myself that I am cursed, if not a curse itself, and that in the course of my existence I have made flaws that altered my life beyond regret. If only I could turn back time, a cliché for those who are frustrated, but it runs through my thoughts endlessly.
My former self has become a stranger even to me. It seems like eons since I genuinely felt bliss, and no amount of ice cream or pizza, two of my few vanities if I may put it, can bring me back to my childish nature.
Childish, yes you read it right. I was carefree, like a child in the rain or a bird in flight. I care for nothing except getting my candy to lick. I still play in the rain though, only to cry and pour my sadness out of my system hoping the water will wash it away. At the same time wishing the rain will bridge my longing to whoever listens to the cries of my wretched anima.
Anathema! I am forsaken!
I lie in my odor-filled chamber reading novels, trying to be productive in my imagining. And in the past months I have read quite a number, which I used to think was very a impossible ‘achievement’ for a fellow of very narrow attention span as myself. And when I ran out of books to burn in my thoughts, I resort to browsing over an ancient Webster and a pocket thesaurus enriching my poverty-stricken vocabulary. In my hunger for words I wrote poetry when boredom strikes. And so I dubbed my poetry, if you consider them as such, ‘products of unproductiveness’, and proclaimed myself a poet in hybernation.
I admit to myself that I am cursed, if not a curse itself, and that in the course of my existence I have made flaws that altered my life beyond regret. If only I could turn back time, a cliché for those who are frustrated, but it runs through my thoughts endlessly.
My former self has become a stranger even to me. It seems like eons since I genuinely felt bliss, and no amount of ice cream or pizza, two of my few vanities if I may put it, can bring me back to my childish nature.
Childish, yes you read it right. I was carefree, like a child in the rain or a bird in flight. I care for nothing except getting my candy to lick. I still play in the rain though, only to cry and pour my sadness out of my system hoping the water will wash it away. At the same time wishing the rain will bridge my longing to whoever listens to the cries of my wretched anima.
Anathema! I am forsaken!
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