(Matter is anything that occupies space.)

 

It gets easier, they say. But people

say a lot of things.

 

What remains

echoes long

after the vibrations have ceased.

 

And this pause,

stands here to replace

what isn’t there.

 

 

——

(What) Matter(s) is neither created nor destroyed.

It just isn’t here anymore.

In Defense Of My (Apparent) Despair

Quick post before leaving (fine, getting up and actually dressing up) for class.

Even if you have nothing to writewrite and say so.

— Cicero

I just realized how sad this blog is.

Anyone who knows me in the material, temporal world would tell you I actually have a disposition from the opposite end of what is reflected here. Man, I couldn’t stress this enough — my days have actually been looking up since September started and I have been too busy having a grand time to write it down here, or anywhere else. What was I supposed to key in, a day by day account of how different sets of friends visit or go out with me, or how recently I have been finding the best nooks all around the Metro thus being able to spend some enlightening alone time constitutes the alternate definition of what a great day is?

The other day, my best friend told me that I’m one of those charming, impulsive girls that everybody likes. Of course I bribed him with a chocolate donut and we were eating it when he came up with that declaration so that might be it, but still. Remembering that, and some other stuff people said to me this week ( Tell me the truth, am I dying soon? People are so nice these days, unusually generous with compliments) as I was browsing through this blog’s archives made me wonder about how I’m being judged, or if I am even genuinely understood.

Because if you do, props to you. I’m not even sure I understand myself completely, or if it is even possible to do so. It is a feat yet to be conquered.

No, wipe that smirk off your face. Sure, it’s superficial and pointless to be haunted by the prospect of being judged by other people and have this dictate what you do or what you say. You will be, long after you’ve turned into dust. But as another friend said last night, you cannot erase that from the human psyche. People will always care about what others thought of them, let’s be serious here, because human beings naturally judge other beings. (And then we spent the rest of the night drinking and making fun of some people, see my point?)

Fact and fiction have always been polar opposites, but sometimes you marvel at how time erases the straight line between, until you can’t tell which is what anymore, and it has long stopped mattering to you. Writers are insane like that, and yes however phony that seems I shall identify myself as one of those beings called writers because I always have, and probably always will. This ( seemingly-but-probably-really-is sad, depressed, agitated, confused, aching, anxious ) blog wouldn’t exist if it weren’t the case.

In the meantime, let me spend my days however the hell I wish.

Fin.

1. https://beatricetulagan.wordpress.com/2012/08/04/364/

2. https://beatricetulagan.wordpress.com/2012/08/04/366/

3.

JAM Bus Liner, Cubao

They had to chase a bus down for them to get on the last trip to Los Banos that morning.

**

Global City, Taguig

**

Gateway, Cubao

“Hey.” he says breathlessly, crashing into the seat next to her. It was the first time she saw him up close. He smiles apologetically. He was late, and although this was a habit that will annoy her for the first few weeks, she will learn to live with it, because of that sheepish smile.

“I thought you went up to the mountains to join your comrades.”, she teases him.

**

 

Wala na akong maalala. Hindi na kasing lakas yung kapit mo, tulad ng dati.

Dati, kapag nadadaan ako sa mga lugar na napuntahan natin, parang isang eksena sa teleseryeng hindi mo pepwedeng ‘wag pansinin. Puro multo kasi. Yung tipong mukha ka nang gago dahil nakasanayan mo nang tumigil bigla sa paglalakad at tumulala habang pinapanuod sa utak mo yung mga pangyayaring dapat mo na talagang ibaon pero sa kung ano mang rason ay hindi mo magawa. Para bang reenactment, replay, yung “ang nakaraan” bago magsimula yung palabas. Ganun. Ngayon, kailangan ko pang hulihin yung sarili ko at tanungin kung bakit wala ka na sa isip ko.

Wala na rin yung udyok ng imahinasyon kong gawin kang (tayong) imortal sa pamamagitan ng pagsusulat. Totoo nga, ilang (hindi tapos na) istorya at (isinulat sa tissue paper kaya nawala) tula na ang nagawa ko, matanggal ka lang sa sistema ko. Pagpupurga ba. Mukhang natanggal ka na nga kasi hindi na ko makapagsulat tungkol sa’yo. Huli na siguro ‘to. Wala na akong maramdaman. Nakakapanibago minsan kapag napagtatanto kong naka-recover na nga ako sa ngayon. Ilang buwan din kasi yung pagmumukmok ko. Sa mga normal na araw, hindi naman gaano kasama, papasok ka lang sa isip at mananatili ng saglit, kumbaga ba’y dumadalaw. Pero nagkaroon din ng mga araw na sobrang lakas ng hila sa’kin pababa ng lupa. Yung pucha, gagawin ko talaga lahat magkaroon lang ng time machine at ayusin lahat ng kagaguhang nagawa sa’yo.

Madami-daming realization. Yung iba kalokohan lang pero ito yung iba: wala sa oras. Walang basbas ng langit. Wala sa hulog. Ang pinaka-importante sa lahat ay yung katotohanang wala naman talagang may kasalanan. Hindi ikaw, hindi ako. Masaya na rin ako para sa’yo, sa inyo.

Sige na nga. Para sa sarili ko na rin.

Tapos na siguro ang kalbaryo. Mabuti naman. Sa wakas.

Phantasmagoria

 

The greatest idea for a poem

came to me in a dream.

 

It seemed that way at first, but then

I guess I was never really one

for meaning, I tend to place it

where it is not due. Sometimes,

too much. So this time, I won’t.

 

A body on a sidewalk, covered

with the thick gray cloth used to take

the place of galvanized iron. There appears

to be a murder, for bodies are all around. Some

motionless but breathing, what difference

does it make to a passer-by — apparently, none.

 

I was headed to the church.

Perhaps in dreams I have yet

to suspend belief, or I retain but

have yet to claim otherwise.

Faith is separated

from reality, but in dreams

anything was possible.

 

Still, I called out and yelped “God”

a sudden

loosening of the folds, a contraction

of breath, regardless of who that may be

 

when

a hand reached

across,  gripped

my left foot and looked

at me with pale eyes that

have long been lifeless before they even

met death.

 

The voice, coming

now from all directions, although reduced

to a whisper, asking

me to join him.

 

And I wondering

why not.