The sound of rain tapping hard on the roof and the howling wind against the window pane sound like a classical music to her nerves that stimulate all her dying senses. She looked up at him as he drifted off silently. How peaceful you are, she thought, like a sweet child unknown of the harsh blanket clouting your little playground. His shallow breathing formed a light moist against her forehead; sweet and tender with a tinge of grapes. She closed her eyes as she reminisced about how she loved it; nights spent in a cold and dark room as the two of them seek fire from each other’s touch. As though their skins are of great combination to ignite flames through a delicious friction only them could make. She gently skimmed his bare chest with her candle-like fingers, savored every inch of his flesh, every chest hair that seemed like unstrummed guitar strings. She left butterfly kisses on and felt the warmth of his soft lips. Continue reading “Butterfly Kisses”
I kissed his wrinkled hand goodbye.
I stare at the journal resting in my clammy and trembling hands, couldn’t summon to look in her pained eyes as guilt hits me with promises that never come to reality. Standing right now with her, at the cottage near the end of a beach boardwalk where together we smiled, laughed and shared our darkest secrets, she seems away from me—facing further in the sea. Then she turns—blank from the hints of her emotions. I pause for a moment, trying to gather words that could fit. I have no right to keep her long for nothing.
Continue reading “See You Again”
Being bilingual is undeliably fun, as I can communicate with whoever in the world I want, and quite a battle too in terms of matching more appropriate words that counterpart what I’m trying to say. In a dreamy state I love poetry—those elegant use of metaphors and how it rouses the most delicate of human emotion. Oooh, what a beauty! But in everyday life I’ve known myself as sharp, direct to the point, and I don’t always have a sweet word to explain what exactly my thoughts and feelings are. It takes more time for me to sugarcoat everything I have to say in order to seem nicer and avoid argument or misunderstanding.
Continue reading “The Struggle is Real: Translating Tagalog to English”
I once had a conversation with someone who loves reading and has a great potential to creative writing, but the person was so reluctant into figuring out how to enrich that talent; the same thing I had felt years before I even go out and build a blog and start publishing stuff, because the idea of not being good enough frightens me. The thought of my works not being good enough for readers scares me. And no one, I’m pretty much sure of that, no one likes rejection. Whether it be for their opinion, idea or craft.
Continue reading “Things I Learned and a Piece of Advice”
Change is as funny and corny as the old saying goes you can never find true love with the wrong person, but isn’t as complex as it shouldn’t be. We insist it on a stranger standing next to us in a bus station. Demanding it on the people governing office and power, a halo we bestowed right over their heads, and when the time comes of their corruption we cry our ass out and file for their impeachment and proclaim another shithead for the same position. But we do not reach it deep within ourselves—not within our souls.
Aren’t we tired of the same destruction—racism, weapons, wars, pollution—which destroys the young, the innocent, the kind disposition?
If we want something, shan’t we become the torch of inspiration that motivates a whole damn nation to interfere against the destruction we ourselves once started, and finally put an end to hypocrisy and malevolent only we invented. The truth is change is never in action if we put it upon the grace of other people. But what’s even truer is that none of our half have come to realize the truth yet, and none of us at all have decided to put it upon themselves—otherwise there would have been serenity and prosperity in every corner of the street. In the end change is only an idea, and it will remain as is without our will and action. We will never find it with the person standing next to us nor the person we elect in the office. Stop complaining and start doing something.
Featured image courtesy of 2p.com
I have let the day slip through my fingers.
Another chance lost in the woods I can never take back, as it faded away, swallowed by the dark.
I have let the day waste deep within the fire of ocean as it bleached the possible painting of wonders into a yet empty white canvass.
I have lent the day to the demon, now holding it in his left hand, tightly wrapping his fingers around my sun, as it slowly crushes and burns to ashes right before my naked eyes.
The demon blew the ashes my way, went as it stung my sight, I came to inhale it, I wailed outraging insanity; I grasped for life, fought for luck; it choked my nostrils, blocked air from my lungs.
The universe eventually dimmed, owning its time, as though the stars had run out of fuel, until my lids lost their will to open, and my heart slowly stopped thumping.
Until then I will not realize the weight of my neglect.
Until then I will continue crushing my sun, day after day.
Featured image courtesy of favim.com