Again, I don’t have the words.

 

Again, I don’t have the words.

How would one verbalize the rawness of emotion? In it’s simplest form: one or two words do it no justice… and no length can properly convey the meaning.  As much as one my try to imbibe in colorful words that prattle on and on, one can really only make sense of things as it throbs in your head. In your heart. Your very soul shudders at the thought.

I don’t seem to have the right words to describe this.

You came very randomly.  Amidst a see of people and faces. Smack in the middle of the loneliest website known to man: Facebook. I was working then. I sent a few messages and you replied a few times and that was it.

Our exchanges were succinct and unassuming.  There was no way we could’ve predicted how much has changed now.

We connected somehow after exchanging text messages. Thousands of them later, you had become important enough to make an impact in my life. Your words were like food and sustenance. It was keeping me going through the madness of my lifestyle. The double jobs. The stress at home. It provided that additional smile and stride of my days.

Truth be told, I still read through our old messages trying to figure out what happened. How I fell in love with you. I can’t really pinpoint the exact string of messages nor the time and date that it did. I remember walking through Baguio with you in my head. I tried to shake it off by going through familiar places. Baguio was no longer a sad place for me. I tried imagining the places you might’ve haunted. I wanted to more about you.

I remember being horribly annoyed you couldn’t come to see me, and the silence treatment I was getting. I hated the feeling. That silence. I couldn’t understand why you meant something to me. I was slowly getting attached.

When we started talking again, I found myself seeing in to the future with you. The more I got to know you, the more I wanted to be with you. I wanted you. I wanted to spend the rest of my days with you. This is someone I’d like to be with. This is someone I am starting to love with all my heart.

I’m being redundant. I still find it hard to verbalize these emotions into something more eloquent. I am hoping I could come up with something better to give justice to what I am feeling right now.

One day, when I hold you in my arms, I will tell you that it wasn’t loneliness that brought us to each other. It is something else… and that something else will keep us together.

I choose you. I will keep on choosing you. I may be quiet at times, but I’ll be by your side.

I won’t have the words, but I’ll be here. I choose you.

Why do we write?

 

It’s a weird thing, really. This need to write. Where there is no other orifice or outlet that can ever be the container for the things that just want to… to explode. to ooze. to drip. (out)  The need to write. The urge. When having two jobs that both require you to write on a daily basis, 18 hours a day. Even when the thought of writing another word makes one sick.  Your fingers even dread the thought of having to type on another key on the keyboard…

But I write anyway. Something about writing for myself calms me down. The thought that you aren’t hindered or restricted to certain guidelines of forms. The only structure you need to be wary of is the structure of your thoughts. The message you want to deliver.

Lately, I have been getting strict with myself. There are times when I scratch a draft out just because it doesn’t really make sense or it doesn’t really answer the questions my mentors told me to ask my piece.

“Why did you write this piece?”

“What is your message?”

“Is your message clear?”

Then again, I keep forgetting the smiles they make when they finally say:

“Why do you write?”

“For whom do you write?”

The last two questions have enough power to cancel the first three guidelines in writing a beautiful piece. Someone important to me reminded me to just post what you feel like writing, really. “Because, you can.”

I realized this over a sandwich and coffee while I lazily read through my drafts. I can always edit them later on, right? There are times when I want to take writing seriously. Though I won’t really make money off this blog… I remembered why I put this up in the first place.  It is my blog.  It’s for me to write in.  Who cares if anyone reads this?  Sure, readers would be nice. Likes and comments are always welcome but… at the end of the day, it is the personal satisfaction one gets after writing something regardless if it means anything or not.

What matters most is that it is out there.  You pressed the publish button.

On conversations in twilight

Glenda came in and disrupted the Philippines.  She ravaged us with shrieking winds and pelted us with fat droplets, flooding the streets. She tore trees, lamp posts and left us in total darkness.  Most areas anyways… but it also did something beautiful:

We talked.

People here and there started talking to each other.  We put down our phones and toys as their batteries dwindled out to oblivion.  Candles lit tables as everyone gathered to sit down and be human again.  We reached out and communicated in the most original way to convey thoughts:  the personal approach.

At first, it reminded me of how people were while watching the Walking Dead.  We had no phones, no electricity and no internet.  The only difference is that there were no zombies to hold us in fear.

I held my harmonica to my mouth and blew a low C.  Dust was evident from the prolonged times of unuse.  The guitar, now warped from different changes of temperature, was no longer playable.  My cousin laughed at how nostalgic it sounded.  Like some western on the brink of a sunset.  We laughed at the dining table.

We talked about plans and dreams and all other things.  The whole afternoon was filled with laughter and energetic voices… as if something went alive so suddenly.  I was looking at their faces.  It felt like i hadn’t seen those faces or that timbre of their voices in quite a while.

For 8 hours, we were humans.  Devoid of any social media.  No games.   No electronic devices.  For a glimpse, we were ourselves… what we ought to be.  Things became clearer as ideas bounced back and forth.

Although the ordeal was a hassle, it awoke something that fell asleep when we all went online.  That side of us which wants to reach out and communicate.  To share.  To experience.

I actually look forward to this forced event.  No storms or anything… but i want to look forward to the next time we would all just sit down and talk for awhile.

Thank you, Glenda.

Sunset Fisherman

Sunset Fisherman

I took this picture at Puerto Galera in the Philippines. One of the few beaches I frequently go to simply because of the sunsets and the sunrises. I prefer the weekdays, when devoid of people. You can see the waves lapping at the beach when it has been thoroughly cleaned. You will hardly see any traces of the weekend, where it bustles the most.

There is something serene about this place. When after tourism has died down, the ordinary appears. The beauty resurfaces. You can see simple things like this and just be awed at how astonishing the ordinary can get. The vastness of the skies will can make any one slow down with cloud envy.

It is easy to fall in love here. It is easy to find yourself as well.