So, there —

I ask nothing of you since you are not mine.
I have been warned of those like you,
Who keep wishes true,
You who light up the halls,
You who spark joy with a mere whisper,
You who make reason for rhyme,
You who make the moment matter more than tomorrow.
You with sleight of hand have broken down the walls i have built all this time.
I ask nothing of you but one thing.
Ask me why i am telling you all of this.
And i will answer.

Steve: Putaaaaa. Sinabi mo yan?

Robin: Oo naman. Actually, tinext ko.

Steve: Galing mo namang mangbola, gago ka. Ano naman reply niya?

Robin: Isang matamis na “Why”.

Steve: At ano ang sinagot mo?

Robin: “Because i can’t stop thinking about you. I think… I have fallen for you.” Kasama mga ellipses sa text talaga ha.

Steve: Ang gago ng sagot mo. At no naman ang ni-reply niya dun?

Robin: Ang pinaka-classic na puwedeng i-reply sa mga ganyang tirada pare.

Steve: Ano.

Robin: “Thank you.”

— Girl Trouble, Alan Navarra. :)



A position vector expresses the position of a point P in space in terms of a displacement from an arbitrary reference point O (typically the origin of a coordinate system). Namely, it indicates both the distance and direction of an imaginary motion along a straight line from the reference position to the actual position of the point.

A displacement may be also described as a ‘relative position’.



speed is distance

over time. it presupposes

movement. moving

beyond, ceasing contact — we

never really asked

why, only how.




transience then, sees

more than what is there, or here; sees

that perhaps, it will never

be enough.

it seeks what

is amiss, chasing

and forever being chased

by what is

now lost.




why do we bother

with being

at rest, anyway?

no one stays in place. always,

someone is moving,

being moved, though we may be

convinced otherwise. falling bodies,

however unwary —




how fast we were going, how fast

we are. where to, how. meters per second,

squared. everything, but

that which used to

matter the most — never mind reasons.

why do we


to acknowledge, or

factor in, at least

the value of

everything else that we

leave behind?



*this afternoon, during natsci 1 class. originally written on post-it’s.

F=MA. Pwersahan.

Since recently I’ve been discovering the merits of honesty, I’m going to be straight about this — I’ve been meaning to write. Really. More than those two-line combos I scribble during classes, more than those ”What do I expect from this subject” paragraphs. I’ve been meaning to write. I’ve been wanting to, more importantly.

Not that there isn’t anything to write about. (Hypothetical) God knows how great the past few weeks have been, some days better than most, some aching to be documented through a poem or two. It’s just that..

Putangina, ‘di ko rin alam kung bakit. Gusto ko magsulat. Gusto ko punuin ‘to, seryoso. Sa palagay ko kasi, hindi sapat ang laman ng pahina na ‘to.

Kailan ba nagiging sapat ang mga salita sa isang pahina? Sapat na nga ba ang mga salita? At kung hindi, paano natin napupunan ang kulang, ang wala?

Ang gulo rin ano — kung kulang ang nasasabi, delikado dahil baka walang mapaabot na mensahe. ‘Pag sobra sobra naman, parang gusto mo tumalon ng footbridge sa katangahan, sa pagkahiya sa sarili, tulad ng araw-araw kong naiisip gawin kapag — Ah, nevermind.

E, basta. Hindi daw hinahanap ang tula. Tulad ng pag-ibig, ito’y dumarating sa’yo.

Ay, baliktad ata.

Ewan. Balang araw, mapupuno rin ito. Hindi na puro kababawan. Hindi na rin puro tula (?) tungkol sa’yo. o sa’yo. Malaki ang mundo, maraming kwentong nag-aabang lang sa tabi-tabi. Hindi lang natin napapansin kasi masyado tayong nasanay sa kasinungalingan na hindi na mahalaga yung mga bagay na nadadaanan natin, ‘yung lumipas na, o kaya naman ‘yung ibang alternatibong daan patungo sa — eh, kung alam mo na kung saan, dun. Ibahin kaya ang daan, at iligaw ang sarili sa samu’t-saring eskinita kung saan may bagong tao, bagong pananaw?

Sabi nga ng propesor ko kahapon, ang panitikan daw ay mas malalim, mas malawak pa sa kung ano ang nakahain sa atin, sa kung ano ang nakalimbag.

Applying that excuse  logic, sabihin na lang natin na mahahanap rin ng mga kathang-isip ko ang daan patungong WordPress — palabas ng mga margin ng notebook. Palabas ng mga love letter na isinisingit ko sa mga upuan ng bus. (Malay mo, makarating, hindi ba?) Palabas ng mga halos hindi ko na maintindihang sulat sa mga sketchpad. Palabas ng mga stream-of-consciousness style declamations tuwing lasing may inuman after (o before) class. Palabas ng mga vandal. Palabas ng mga tweets.

Palabas ng isip, papasok uli. Balang araw. Tiwala lang.

A Promise

I promise to write everyday, starting now.


Or you know, later would do. Tonight, since I think better when everyone is asleep. Maybe tomorrow, then.

Categorical Imperative

now, the seconds pass

slowly. almost like they

don’t. but, here we are


alone, separated only

by four tables designed

to seat ten. forty people apart,


invisible. this space, silence

occupying every inch.

i watch you, for what else

is there to do? right now,


the world is dead. the world is us, this.

your eyes sweeping over me, sweeping

the distance, now we are without. walls,

falling, worlds are colliding now.

but then, you look away-


and this is my chance. only, the moment

slips away, dead now, swift. gone.

you look at me, and I act as if

nothing really happened.



— Miss, No food and drinks inside the library.


This is the hour we are farthest

from God, isn’t it. But we

have long stopped believing

in Him. Only heaven – this. Ours,


now. Since it seems we

are stuck, how about

you tell me what you know, and

how we got here, for I

am too afraid to ask?


Say then, something

about distance, and how someone

once told you to never

look back, but you did. Otherwise,


I would have remained

a strange face in a classroom

you never really belonged to.


Stay still, when, if

we finally run out of words.

Try again, pull me in, as if

you’ve always had.


And later on, forget —

like you always do.


18th June, Monday. Written on a bus headed to Cubao, during a traffic jam from hell. Putangina, late na ‘ko.

Yes, for K.