The Tale of the Unknown

I control the information I share on any media. However, I hate those who makes a string of inaccurate stories about me just to fill the gaps they don't understand. They are not supposed to understand.

I'm starting to think everything can backfire on me any minute now. Where's my plan?

We cannot grow if we are not ready to be uncomfortable. Accept the chaos.

At the very least, I should have an idea what I'm doing—but I am running back to what I've started, trying a leap in a fake progress. Wrapping my head around a career building at the expense of crushing other people makes me feel substandard.

I'm human and I have a couple of morals. Please pretend to be surprised.

On Mocha Uson

Sabi nila, ang argument ng iba, somebody has to be given a second chance regardless of her past lifestyle, that we are all judgmental jerks and we should give Mocha another shot.

Pero dude, hindi nga sya exotic dancer, naging political prostitute naman sya. Bayaran pa rin. Never had a personal opinion; she will defend the administration whatever the cost of her twisted logic. GANUN PA RIN NAMAN. I have yet to see a Mocha blog entry that despises or criticizes the President. Ang bias diba? Hindi ba sila nagkakasala? Hindi ba nagkakamali ang bansang 'to?

Let’s end this once and for all: her present, actually, has no difference at all. Iba nga lang ng platform.

People and Choices

“Neither of those men realized your worth,

because you failed to value yourself highly enough.

A man does not know a woman’s value.

She is the one who determines her value.

The higher you price yourself,

the more he will realize what you are really worth…”

( Woman at point Zero, Nawal El Saadwi )

------- 0o0o0o0 ------

When people walks up to you, their first impressions of you will stick in them. Some may be satisfied by what they see, others not. Some lunatics might follow you around, know every corners of you and even chase who you are and why do you act as such. It doesn’t stop. The extent of a man’s determination to know your soul is both pitiful, charming, and impressive—all at the same time.

But there will be a time when you can’t hold the game anymore—that you need to put your foot down so the truth will eventually spit out. It’s not that you’re whining, nor demanding; not even in the slightest hint that you are being cruel. It’s just that in relationships, people must know where they stand. Who you are in their lives. Which parts are real and which are lies.

People without labels are only better off in their separate ways. At least, they can play their dangerous games without hurting each other so much. 

A Short Poem

I like how he stares at me.

I like how he stares.

And his ridiculous ways

And sensible paragraphs.

I like his back glances.

I like his proximity,

So close

That sometimes I can’t see nothing

But him. Alone. You and I.

The Blurred Vision Disorder

        Ushering him outside the museum, she could almost feel his irritation. His anxiety like his emotions are now her clattered bones, as they both strut against the pale ample marbles beneath the soles of his shoes, her heels. Their footsteps jive with the hushes of people, whispering here and there, over the artworks, arguing and praising over sculptures and paintings, with a  companion or a mere stranger. The couple has always been this silent; and whenever they are not, they’ve been arguing.

            With sweaty palms and cold hands, she attempted to reach for his shoulder, like a child keeping up with her mommy, trying to apologize, while he hastened his steps against the col pavement. Yet, with the repulsiveness of both of their behavior, an amusing smile dashes across her perfect lips; because then, with the last remarks she heard, feigning anger is much harder to restrain.

            Amused and entertained, she tried to keep the private joke to herself—because at least, she knew a secret that finally, cannot fathom his sharp senses.

-------- 0o0o0o0 -------

            The sizzle from the ignited match always revived the same memory.

            James, 36, has been living with stiff ethical values. Before he lived with his family, with a wife and two kids, he lived in a voiceless, sanitized apartment with his solitude, commandeering his television set and cold furnitures. No pet greets him. He had no friend across the neighbor. No exchange of pleasantries. Always busy with his thoughts, he walks like a zombie, with glazed eyes and a mumbling mouth. James dashes himself into the corporate society every day, as his tie dangles around his neck like a noose, strangling him into an exhausting day, making himself a guinea pig in a tiresome treadmill. A taxi has always been waiting at the footsteps of the building, catering him and the rest of the high-salaried slaves of the city.

            He is always aware of his own legacy, his own name. He claims, that the confined spaces of his own workplace is the only thing worthy of his aesthetic, imaginative viewpoints.

            On a tiring Monday of December 2002, while the wind pass upon their puffy cheeks, as he lit a matchstick to puff an air to his cigarette, his wife finally pose a concern she’s itching to ask for months.

“Museum?”

“Yes, museum.”

“BAH! Why do I need to?”

“Nothing. Just trying to make you flesh and blood.”

-------- 0o0o0o0 -------

          He forgot his eyeglasses.

            Stomping around the halls, James entertained no colors and figures around the museum gallery. With a grumpy face, he stalls, stares and walks away with the slightest mumble of discontent. I shouldn’t be here, he thought, while he keeps track of tomorrow’s list of mundane paperworks.

            He regrets forgetting his eyeglasses. He continues to cry the imperfections of the place, condemning and criticizing each artwork, not even dared to glance at the constellation of architectures at the ceiling; thinking, at his discretion, that the whole museum was an apparent misuse of money, space, vacant lots and Boysen inks.

            Finally, with an air of superiority against the hues around him, he stopped at a frame then finally complained to his wife, “Look at this painting! The work doesn’t clearly resemble any imaginative talents! The subject is boring, and meaningless! The focus of the painter is at the wrong spatial perspective, and his subject is wrinkly, boned to death, and had a poor stance!”

           

            An amusing smile dashes across his woman’s perfect lips. Amused and entertained, she tried to keep the private joke to himself. If only he knew, that the last thing he tried to demean, and that he loathe most, considering as the worst work of art, was a huge mirror showing his own reflection.

Wine, Women and Song: A Poem

Wine, Women and Song

To the man who wants to get away but never does.

It is the stares and gaze

With your demeanor you can amaze

With a crooked mind and a big ego

Making your name a sophisticated logo

That people can remember as you walk and go.

Accompanied with reds and blacks

Enemies accumulated in stacks

I, too, was once a part of that

Pointed looks, words sharp as a dart

Demeaning attitudes and insulting remarks.

Cold air rested in my cheeks

An enemy is not what I seek

Betting my manners have finally leaked

From a spark, a bomb has lit.

My own pound of flesh.

Everybody wants to leave me a mesh

Like a T-rex with a prey so weak

He approached me and I shivered with fear,

But with his soft eyes he said, “My intentions are clear”.

Painstakingly waited for my doubts to pass

Painstakingly waited for my walls to crash

Silly passes, bad quotes and clumsy lines

For years we laugh at our lame rhymes

But garnering a reputation so bad to hear

A faithless woman I turn out to be

Those silly passes, bad quotes and clumsy lines

I found out has practiced a million times

Unmasking a charming face, a monster I find.

Waiting for the proper timing to find a conversation

Finding revelations I can’t shun no longer

I watch him desperately pick those clutter

Seeing his hands for the glass he shattered

But for me, those lame rhymes doesn’t matter anymore.

- Danica Ann Niegas