Breaking Point

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2005-09-25T14:42:00.000-07:00

Hi all!

I am relocating.

My new abode: mouthpieceofthedead.blogdrive.com

A 20-August-2005 Thought

2005-08-20T10:26:00.000-07:00

Most of the time, when you've kept pushing on and you've grown tired, you gotta rest. Other times, you just got to wake up.

Carrion

2005-08-18T07:54:00.000-07:00

"My feel for you boy... is decaying in front of me... like the carrion of a murdered prey...."

Can't get the song out of my head. All day I thought, I'm done. Enough already. The waiting is almost over... Fiona Apple is releasing her third album.

I guess music gets me more excited than people do.

So long, cocksuckers! (I really feel like cursing today.)

"Hunger hurts... and I want him so bad oh it kills 'cuz I know I'm a mess and he don't wanna clean up..."

What's Up?

2005-07-05T13:30:00.000-07:00

Hi. As you might have noticed already I am not an avid blogger. Not as avid as I would have wanted. See, I plan to be an emotional nudist, like most artists before me that I adore. Unfortunately I am not an artist. I am a call center agent, an outsourced factory worker, screwed up in every faculty because there is no other choice but to be screwed -- sideways, doggie style, you name it!

I just thought I'd drop by -- to check if you've bothered to drop by as well -- and explain why the header above is no longer showing. See, I have uploaded that image to my webspace -- the URL of which I cannot disclose as of yet, which you might figure out yourself if you've enough Internet experience -- and my account has been suspended due to non-payment. I have not paid for it for two billing cycles straight. Because what's the point, anyway? I have not made any progress on that website for seven months (or even more). That's five months already of wasted money.

I shall be able to start working on that site again, though, once I get to buy a new computer. See, my computer is too slow... running on 32MB RAM and all that. I cannot even write because of this computer. Too slow for my fast typing fingers, and my even faster mind (which these days has been slower than a worm, though.)

So I guess I'm just dropping by to see if any one of you could help me buy a new computer... a laptop, most ideally, so I can sign up for Wi-Fi and work on my site (or write my adult novel) at some Wi-Fi HotZone like Mango Square or Ayala Entertainment Center.

I guess 80K will do. I might even consider whoring for you.

Text me if you're in the Philippines at 09179226987.

Or send me an email: rye_glass@hotmail.com

Thank you in advance! =)

Nah... I'm really just interested in meeting like-minded correspondents. Good luck!

Breaking Point

2005-06-24T23:02:00.000-07:00

short fiction

A WRITING ON the wall facing her said: Rufus Hidalgo, I love your cock!

Amanda laughed aloud. Girls rarely admit to loving some guy’s cock, especially girls her age, let alone write it on a wall. She was pretty certain, though, it was written by somebody her age, as older girls simply do not do silly things like write vulgar things on public restroom walls. Girls older than her are women, she thought.

She went out of the restroom and went back to their table with a nonchalant expression on her face. She intentioned herself to wear a nonchalant expression because she didn’t like the people she was hanging out with that night -- all except for Martha, who was her bestfriend, whom she considered a genuine person.

"So what did I miss?" she whispered to Martha as she sat down beside her. She took a stick from her pack of Marlboro Lights and lit it.

"Nothing," Martha retorted.

Amanda blew a fine trail of gray smoke and said, "Thought so."

"They’re always too young for me, even those who are a couple of years my senior," the girl opposite Amanda vented. She was the one who has been talking since Amanda got back from the restroom. The girl was talking to the two other boys that they were hanging out with.

"Who are?" Amanda asked the girl.

"Boys. Men. They’re all boys, really. They’re always too immature for their own good."

The two boys they were with gave their flirty don’t-be-unfair and not-all-boys-are-boys responses to the girl. The girl gave an amused expression.

Amanda smiled to herself. "Relationships and all that horseshit, huh?" she whispered to Martha.

Martha gave a subtle nod.

"They can’t handle you? Or you find it hard handling them?" Amanda said to the girl. Only Martha was able to note the sarcasm Amanda was throwing.

"Both. Cause-and-effect, if you know what I mean."

Amanda nodded and inhaled from her cigarette. "I’ll always know what you fuckin’ mean."

"How many times have you been in a relationship, What’s Your Name Again?" the girl asked Amanda in a caustic tone. Apparently, the girl was able to note Amanda’s sarcasm this time.

"The name’s Amanda," she answered brusquely. Suddenly Amanda was furious -- not because the girl forgot her name fifteen minutes after being introduced to each other but because of the question that was thrown at her. "And I have never romantically attached myself to anyone."

The girl gave a condescending nod.

Amanda stared at the girl. "Not everyone’s like you," she said incisively, which silenced everyone at the table.

The girl shrugged haughtily.

Amanda wondered why she had stayed on, even at the very moment when she saw the two guys and the girl step down the jeepney. Martha had described them to her earlier as "goddamned posers." Brian, a tall-dark sort, who was almost handsome, was decent enough, except that he, as Amanda had noted, had kept on smiling as though he were high on drugs, and had kept on treating all the girls with annoying chivalry. Antonio, the tall-skinny-fair type, whom Martha has somewhat of a crush on, was okay, except that Amanda knew he was "typical male" in that he is completely dense about girls’ feelings, and that he was sadly an untalented architect-wannabe. And then, of course, Venus, the girl who claims to have outgrown all the boys in the world, whose relationship with the two boys and the reason why she was with them that night will always be a mystery to Amanda. Amanda felt that she should have acted on what she felt was coming the moment she saw Brian and Antonio and Venus step down the jeepney.

"Hey, Ton, is your girlfriend coming or not?" Martha broke the growing silence.

"Don’t think so. It’s their prelim," Antonio answered Martha.

Martha nodded.

Amanda looked at Martha. "You fuckin’ loser," she said under her breath. She couldn’t understand why Martha was still working hard to get Antonio back into bed. Martha had told her it only shook her a little when she found out he has a girlfriend, and at the end of the day Antonio was a great lay, and she wanted to do it with him again. Amanda wondered what sort of good lay promised beneath that terrifically empty-headed disposition. Antonio is obviously empty-headed, Amanda thought, because of his choice of friends -- Brian is so bland he is invisible, and Venus is delusional. Amanda also wondered why it is always that much work for her to like anyone. Her thoughts also wandered off to Zed, the guy whom she has always referred to as her quasi-boyfriend, and why the hell she was having ambivalent feelings toward him.

"Are you all right?" Martha asked her mechanically, drinking on beer from a plastic cup.

"I’m always all right," she retorted.

"Zacharias David!" Martha hollered right in front of Amanda’s ear, which startled the latter.

"What the fuck!" Amanda taxed as she massaged her middle ear with her pinky finger. She looked to her right after a guy’s voice boomed "Hey!" from a considerable distance. A pleasant-looking guy her age was approaching their table with a smile, to which Amanda didn’t bother reciprocate. "Hello, Zed," she greeted dryly as soon as the guy got to where they were.

"Hi, Amanda." Zed patted her on the shoulder. "And Martha," he nodded to Martha. He grabbed a stool from the next table and seated himself. "What are you guys doing here?"

"Drinking, obviously," Amanda replied with unfounded sarcasm.

Zed grinned. "Just so you know," he started, "I came here for myself. I didn’t know you were going to be here. I’m not dogging you around, if that’s what you think."

"I never fuckin’ said you were dogging me around," said Amanda. She noticed that everyone at the table was looking at her. She took the pitcher and poured beer into the plastic cup that Martha had drank from. "Your turn," she said to Brian as she placed the cup in front of him. She turned to Zed. "That’s Brian, Venus, and Antonio." Then she turned to the three. "Zacharias David. People call him Zed."

Zed exchanged nods with the three. He turned to Amanda. "Why do you always have to be rude to me in public?" he whispered.

Amanda hesitated for a second, then she said, "Because you fuckin’ annoy me."

Zed looked down and stayed quiet. At that moment he was just coming up with a perfect way to exit.

Amanda absently fingered through inside a bag Piattos then masticated on a mouthful of chips. "You know what?" she said in a little while. "Let’s just go."

"What do you mean, let’s just go?" Zed, still looking down, said with a hard expression on his face.

"To your place."

Zed heaved a sigh and stared at Amanda long and hard. "Okay," he said almost inaudibly.

Amanda addressed to the circle that she and Zed were leaving. She smiled and nodded to Martha, as though mentally telling her something only the two of them could understand. Before Amanda turned to leave she heard Venus whisper to Antonio "I thought she doesn’t have a boyfriend." Martha also heard it and took it upon herself to say cheerily "That’s her quasi-boyfriend." Amanda corrected it by saying Zed is just her fuck puppet. Zed, already standing a few feet away, pretended not to have heard.

---

While Zed was unlocking the door to his pad, Amanda was rubbing his crotch. "You know what we could try?" Amanda whispered in the dark. "That erotic asphyxiation thing I read from somewhere. It’s supposed to heighten the orgasmic experience."

"Uh-huh," Zed retorted without much zeal. The door knob made a clicking sound and Zed opened the door. "You want me to strangle you while we both have our orgasm?"

Amanda knotted an eyebrow. "Who fuckin’ died and made you an asshole?" She got in the pad after him and grabbed a monobloc chair and sat down. Zed sat on the bed. They sat facing each other. Amanda thought the moonlight shining through the opened window gave the room a sensual ambiance.

"Amanda..." he said. "Do you really see me as just your fuck puppet?"

"Well, aren’t you?" Amanda walked towards him then knelt. "I pull one string and you’re hard." She unzipped his pants and pulled his penis out.

"Stop this!" Zed stood up and put his semi-tumescent penis back in his pants. Amanda sat on the bed as she heaved a deep sigh. Zed, towering over her, stared at her expressionless face, dappled by shadows of the foliage outside the window.

Amanda started laughing. "Are you crying?"

Zed didn’t answer. He sat beside her and stared at some universe in front of him.

"Stop crying, you homo!" she said, still laughing.

Zed craned his neck to face her. "I really don’t like it when you treat me like I’m not good enough for you in front of your friends."

Amanda didn’t say anything for a long time. She couldn’t help feeling a bit guilty. She cleared her throat then said, "You want me to leave right now?" Zed did not answer. Amanda waited for a couple of minutes before standing up. She slowly made her way to the door. As she was about to turn the knob, she felt a hand jerking her hip so she could turn and almost in an instant she found herself locked in Zed’s arms. He kissed her deep in the mouth and she responded ravenously.

Minutes later, both of them were naked on the bed, making unintelligible noises, hands running all over each other’s body. Zed was on top of Amanda, going in and out of her in a rhythm that made her bite him on the shoulder. As they both headed their way towards the climax, with her hands squeezing his buttocks and his hands squeezing her breasts, she whispered to him, "Hold your breath."

"What?"

"Just hold your breath..."

Seconds later, they both moaned in each other’s ears and there was a split moment when everything could not be named. They started panting and gasping for air as though they were drowning.

"How was it?" Amanda whispered, playing with Zed’s sweaty nape.

Zed pushed himself up to look at Amanda in the eye. "Divine." Then he rolled on his back and rolled the condom off. He grabbed a towel then wiped himself. He handed another one to Amanda.

---

It was four o’clock in the morning and Amanda found herself unable to sleep. She rolled on her side and noticed that Zed has been asleep for minutes now. She ran her finger on the bite mark on Zed’s shoulder. She could not understand why but she felt an urge to kiss it. After much deliberation, she lightly touched her lips on the bite mark.

"What did you just do?" Zed rolled on his side to face her. He was holding back a smile that Amanda found annoying.

"You fucking annoy me," Amanda snapped. She sat up then started gathering her clothes from all over the room.

Zed was looking at her while she was putting her clothes back on. "Amanda, I know I don’t," he said.

"You don’t what?"

He sat up and reached for his underwear on the bedside table. "I know I don’t annoy you." He put his underwear on and stood in front of her.

Amanda laughed. "If you say so." Then she turned and left the room, closing the door behind her as quietly as possible.

Out in the streets, while waiting for a taxi, the wind was so cold that Amanda had to rub her hands in front of her face. She was startled to smell Zed on her fingers. "Oh, fuck it," she said to herself.

End.

The Spectator

2005-06-18T17:52:00.000-07:00

For all I know there is no wind.
That these leaves hanging low before me
Are swaying on their own, as
If by choice they know

They can dance to the mere
Weather if they willed themselves
To freestyle as if
I wasn't watching.

A Dank Room

2005-06-16T15:00:00.000-07:00

short fiction

The day she and her mother engaged in a fight on account of her acquisition of a pierced nose, Martha lost her virginity. It wasn’t just a fight, it was the fight of fights. Mrs. Tecson started by saying "What did I ever do to deserve this?" and Martha, smart-alecky towards her mother as always, said "You deserve everything." Then they went on with a raised-voice debate about the role of children toward their parents against the role of parents toward their children. It was Martha who seemed victorious in the end, as after she accused her mother of being a lousy parent -- saying that no mother should think her child owes her life to her, as no child ever asked to be born, especially that being born means enduring every hour in this horrible planet, and that she really shouldn’t try to dictate her actions, especially if such actions aren’t so harmful like getting one’s nose pierced -- her mother slouched in a chair and broke into quaking sobs. Martha immediately left upon seeing her mother cry and met with a guy named Ted Baylon.

The first thing one would notice about Ted is that, virile as he is, he is five feet and two inches tall. One could not immediately tell he is hunky and muscular and satisfactorily vain, because he is five-two, a midget, a bonsai of a man. Martha, unfortunately, happened to be physically attracted to the little guy. Nice physique and wheels, she had often told her friends.

They met at six in the evening, thirty minutes after Martha texted Ted about wanting some company, with the residue of Martha’s rage towards her mother still fresh in her that she would at intervals find herself balling her fingers to tight fists. They had KFC for dinner and, at Martha’s request, watched a Rated R movie after that. It was also her idea that they drive up to the mountains after the movie -- to watch the "city lights," she said.

Watching the "city lights" below them, at about ten-thirty or so, Martha marveled that for something bursting with all sorts of noise and movement, the city could be silenced by distance. "Up here," Martha thought, "cold and foggy as the mind of a furious young adult, are sexual beings. We could do all sorts of noise and movement here and my mother will not know of a single thing." Martha looked at Ted out of the corner of her eye and did not decide against "accidentally" brushing her fingers with his. Then, annihilating whatever it was that had stopped them from it, they kissed, freshly, awkwardly. Martha ran her fingers inside Ted’s shirt and whispered: "Let’s get inside the car."

---

"I’m not bleeding. Why am I not bleeding?" Martha said. She was sitting beside Ted at the back seat, blanketing her sweat-moist upper body with his shirt. It was her fourth tissue and she worried why she has not dabbed on even a little sign of blood. "And is semen really this slimy?"

"Yes, semen is that slimy," said Ted, pulling on his underwear. "And stop worrying why you aren’t bleeding. That is not unusual."

"How would you know? You’ve slept with a lot of virgins?" said Martha, putting her bra back on.

Ted jerked his head towards her and said flatly, "Eight out of the twelve of them were virgins, incidentally."

"So I was the eighth virgin?" Martha looked away, watching blankly the blue-black sky through the tinted car window to her right. She wondered where the ghosts of stratus clouds that had been thick earlier dissolved to.

"No, ninth. Nine out of thirteen." He tittered. "You’re lucky number thirteen!"

---

The bleeding came, in torrents, during Martha’s second time, with a guy named Antonio Perez on top of her.

"Is this your first time?" Antonio enquired, having noticed the flow of blood and Martha’s agonized expression. His thrusting had become slow and irregular, as though he was still deciding whether he should stop or not.

"Second time," Martha retorted in a whisper. "I thought this wouldn’t nearly hurt as bad as the first."

Antonio disengaged himself from Martha and rolled on his back.

"What’s the matter? You don’t want to anymore?" Martha sounded concerned.

Antonio ineptly stared at the ceiling. "You’re bleeding. I’ll go get a towel." He went to the bathroom and came back handing Martha a towel.

As soon as they were fully dressed, sitting on either side of the bed, an ear-splitting silence grew between them. Antonio interrupted it by asking, "Why don’t we have some coffee you and I?"

---

Antonio Perez and Martha Tecson were classmates during their first two years in college. In that supposedly sufficient amount of time they hadn’t managed to get close with each other, despite the fact that from afar, Antonio admired Martha. Martha had never bothered to give Antonio a proper glance. All she took Antonio for were the last-minute notes he lent her before exams. Martha hadn't even noticed right away that Antonio had transferred to another school in their third year.

A good observer can say that Antonio Perez and Ted Baylon are exact opposites, if one should actually care comparing the two. In height, Antonio towers a fantastic five-eleven. He doesn’t have a car. He is lighter-complexioned than Ted, but he doesn’t have the washboard abs nor the bulge of gym-developed biceps. He is slender and tight as a ballet dancer, and Martha hadn’t expected liking it upon seeing him out of his clothes.

Martha and Antonio had met that afternoon, at about one o’clock, in the mall. Martha was faring through a tight crowd that was mobbing a celebrity when Antonio flicked her on the back. "Hey!" he greeted, beaming a boyish smile.

"Hey!" Martha greeted back. "Long time!"

"Yeah. Long time. How are you?" At that point Antonio was pushed hard against Martha. They had gotten deep inside the crowd of hysterical Jericho Rosales fans.

"I’m great." Martha sniffed and was surprised to note that Antonio didn’t smell of anything, not of splash cologne, not even of sour sweat. He smelt like a baby. This gave Martha an idea. "Hey, would you like to get out of here and have some Quickly?"

---

"Do you really like him?" Antonio asked Martha. They had both gotten to his boarding house, finishing the Quickly that they took out earlier that afternoon. It was at Martha’s request that they both went to his boarding house -- to check out his plates, she said. Antonio has long aspired to become an architect, that is why he shifted from Med Tech to Architecture. Martha admired Antonio’s balls for having stood up to his parents to follow his dream.

"Who?" Martha asked back, leafing through his works. "Wow! Nice one," she said to herself, intentionally making it seem as if she were saying it to herself. She thought Antonio’s plates were awful.

"Echo."

Martha laughed out loud. "Hell no! I was there to spit in his face."

Antonio laughed back.

"Well, how about you? Why were you there? You’re an Echo fan, aren’t you?" Martha asked, mockingly, still pretending to be admiring leaf after leaf of Antonio’s plates.

"Hell no. I went there because I saw you."

"Really." Martha put the papers down and looked at him straight in the eye. She noticed he was much better-looking up close.

"Really." Antonio’s Adam’s apple slid up then down, accompanied by a faint sound of his gulp.

---

The afternoon they spent together at the coffee shop was one of the finest afternoons Martha spent with anybody -- that was how she described it in her journal. Martha felt she was the funniest girl in the world talking with Antonio. He was so responsive to her wits and he manifested it by stretching his lips -- lips reddened by the warmth of coffee -- to a heartening convex. Antonio’s smile was painfully wonderful to ogle at. The whole time Martha’s face felt ruddy and warm.

"Any chance we’re finishing what we started this afternoon?" Martha finally couldn’t help asking it. She figured whatever answer Antonio would give her wouldn’t devastate her in any way. She thought his smile would make up for anything.

"Maybe. But not too soon." Antonio smiled again. "You’re spellbinding, Martha. You’re different from all the other girls I’ve known."

Martha was at a loss for words.

---

"T’was fuckin’ corny and you fuckin’ bought it?" Amanda said, casually, to Martha, while blowing an elegant train of smoke. Martha’s friend always has this overflowing confidence in her that makes all the sentences she says seem to sound like "How you fuckin’ doing, brotha?"

"Well, I thought it was sweet. Nobody’s ever told me anything like it before."

The very next day that Martha hung out with Antonio and had her second time, she went to Amanda’s house. Amanda has always been Martha’s confidante, and Martha Amanda’s. Right away after Martha went home from having her first time with Ted, Martha called Amanda over the telephone. She confided that it wasn’t as ecstatically sensational as it was described to be, and that if anything, it was painful, and that it scared her that she didn’t bleed -- the sight of blood would have pleased her, as it indicated she has crossed that border. Amanda said that she didn’t bleed herself during her first time and convinced Martha that it’s going to get really good in time, and in no time she’ll be wanting it everyday, the way the former has been wanting it each day after her third time with her quasi-boyfriend.

"You’re fuckin’ crazy and you make me fuckin’ puke." Amanda said.

Martha absently stood up and went for the door.

"Where the fuck do you think you’re going?" said Amanda, irritated.

"I’m making peace with my mother." Martha gave a nun’s smile. "I haven’t spoken to her in three weeks," she said before she closed the door behind her.

---

Ice cream, that was how it felt like. Everything about the day felt like ice cream. It was sweltering hot, but all noon Martha felt like she has ice cream on her tongue. While everyone around her cussed about being sticky and uneasy, she thanked God for everything feeling like ice cream. The jeepney ride she took to get to Antonio’s boarding house felt like a sleigh ride, and she wondered why all the other passengers’ faces looked disfigured.

That morning, Martha woke up to Antonio’s text message saying that if she could, she might want to drop by his place so he could show her the new plates he made. Martha promptly replied by saying she was going to be there in a jiffy. She immediately showered and wore her favorite blouse and skirt and didn’t even breakfast. At twelve-thirty she was knocking on Antonio’s door.

"You look like you’re in a good mood," Antonio said as soon as he opened the door. He looked like he has just taken a bath, fresh and ready for anything.

"Shouldn’t I be?" Martha smiled and entered, affecting Antonio’s nose with Hugo Red as she passed. She sat on his bed. Only then did she notice that Antonio was in a foul mood. "Anything the matter?" she said affectionately.

He sat beside her, leaning forward and covering his eyes with his hand. "I didn't know it was going to be this hard."

She raised her hand and placed it on his back. Then her fingers went to his nape and started massaging him. "What’s going on?"

It took him a while before he raised his head to face her. His face was so close to hers that Martha thought it would be insane if they didn’t kiss.

Minutes later, Martha began to understand why Amanda had told her she was going to be wanting it everyday.

---

Her head was on his chest, her fingers playfully running on the smooth surface. Martha was spent, having felt sensation after unimaginable sensation. "So tell me what’s going on. Maybe I could help you out."

Antonio sighed. "I’ll be fine."

Martha raised her head and saw that Antonio was still at an emotional ebb. "Come on, Ton, you have to tell me."

Antonio only closed his eyes and shook his head.

She rested her head back on his chest and thought how difficult it was to penetrate into this guy. For a moment she felt like getting all hysterical to ask for his heart and soul. She laughed out loud, picturing how Amanda would righteously enunciate "You fuckin’ loser" to her. She raised her head again and saw that Antonio hadn’t heard her laugh, as he had fallen asleep. She kissed his nipple before dozing off herself.

---

They were both awakened by the sound of a cellphone ringing. Antonio jolted. It was his phone.

Martha sat up as Antonio answered his phone.

"Hi," he said in a weak voice.

Martha watched Antonio. His lips were starting to stretch back to that heartening convex, and in a little while he was full of life. "Yes, yes," he said. "Yes... Okay... Four o’clock... Okay... See ya." He hung up.

"My, my. Look who’s loving life now..." Martha said cheerily. She felt very pleased seeing Antonio looking happy.

Antonio couldn’t stop smiling. "I know, I know."

"Who was that then?"

"My girlfriend. She’s not mad at me anymore." He stood up, excitedly, and scampered around the room like a toddler in a playground. He started picking up their clothes, throwing at Martha hers and putting on his. "We should go now. I am meeting up with her in thirty minutes." He went to her and kissed her on the forehead. "Thanks for the wonderful time."

Martha smiled. She began to realize what an awful room it was that they were in. "This room’s pretty dank," she told him. "Small and dank."

"Huh?" Antonio looked at her, confounded.

"Is this what inspired you in making all those plates?" She gave him a nun’s smile.

Antonio only looked at her, devoid of any sort of apprehension.

"I’ll wait for you outside, okay?" she said. She stood up and left the room fixing her skirt. As soon as she got out she dialed Ted’s number. "Hello, Ted? Hi. I was just wondering, are you free tonight? How would you like to drive up to the mountains again?"

END

One More Reason

2005-04-29T14:19:00.000-07:00

THERE are a lot of reasons why I want to die. Most of them are too involved for me to really be able to discuss them here with some sort of precision needed to explain myself fully. (Quite a long sentence. I hate myself sometimes for not being able to write shorter, more concise sentences. I guess that is already one of the many reasons why I want to die. But we digress.)

In general, I want to die because I am in pain. I do believe, though, that we are all in pain, but I am one who is not that good at handling pain. I hate pain. Each time I feel even a single bit of disappointment which eventually transforms to some measure of pain I want to kill myself. I never asked to be here, to be born, to be created, why do I have to suffer?

A while ago I was hit with one more reason why I want to die soon. I was reading Jessica Zafra's Twisted 7 and was quite surprised to read articles regarding death. One was talking about the death of her mother, and the other was about the death of her best friend, who died of lung cancer, which is quite ironic because she never smoked. Both articles surfaced the type of fear I've always had, but disregarded, since I was a child: the fear of having people I love die out on me (or die ahead of me, whichever is correct). I know that time will come. And I cannot imagine the amount of pain I have to endure when that happens.

So, yeah, I do fear death. But one that is not my own. My own death I'd embrace without reservations. But others'....

If only possible, I'd love it if I could die first. Those people that I will be leaving may feel a little bit of pain when I'm gone, but they'll get by. I on the other hand will go completely insane if they died first. Unfortunately, as I have said before, I hate pain. I do not wish to feel the pain of electrocution, or jumping off a building, or slitting my throat. And right now, the only painless method of dying that I know of is not feasible. So I'm crossing my fingers, writing this entry, scared as hell.

Damn Ms. Zafra.

A Certain Death

2005-03-27T18:00:00.000-08:00

Finally I have completed a poem. It felt so good to just sit down and not say anything and write (albeit groggy), even for just about twenty minutes. I am yet to like/dislike this poem. For now I do not care. What's important is that I have finished one. The last poem I have ever written is Paper Cup, and that was almost a year ago. I find this progress promising as usually after I finish a poem, several other poems follow. And I plan to be prolific this summer. Sleep-deprived, but prolific.

I find some inconsistencies in the poem, though, so I have a feeling I will want to hang myself tomorrow for deciding to have this posted here. So I may even wish to revise it. I am not sure. This could be the first draft or the final. Whatever. Here's the poem.

A Certain Death

certain deaths preoccupy me
deaths no less
abject than that of

fear --
that some live forever
puissant and whole

that others don't
and some resurrect
that others stay

suspended in one's memory
vividly
out of culture

or remorse
that others have not killed you
enough to die.

6 Years, All Crap

2005-03-09T18:40:00.000-08:00

Bong, one of my closest friends, sent me a text message yesterday. One of those that come in after a three-month interval. We rarely keep in touch with each other. In the past two or three years we’ve only seen each other about twice a year. The last time I saw her was during the Sinulog this year. The last text messages we’ve exchanged prior to her message yesterday were about this plan to go to Boracay in April. Yesterday her message was about how mediocre she thinks her life is, because she has not amounted to anything that pleases her.

I myself have not amounted to anything that pleases me. And it did not feel right that I replied to her with all the positivity I could muster. I have been, if you look at it from a self-proclaiming God-fearing fart's perspective, cynical this past year. Most of the ways I rationalized life when I was younger have been reversed. Thus I felt so much of a phony trying to make Bong see things the way most people do. That she shouldn’t kill herself because (a) we have this as-of-yet unofficial pact that I should go first and (b) things will work out fine.

One of the specific things that has been depressing her, as she said, is the fact that she has been telling herself that she likes Nursing because it was the only option right after college. She took another course, Nursing, after graduating from UP since it was her ultimate plan to work in the U.S. I never knew it then that it was more than that. I cannot really stress anything succinctly enough as only she knows what she truly feels, but as far as I understand it, she wants to live independently, to prove something to her parents. And now, as I understand it, she is looking back and realizing that she does not feel any love for Nursing the way she’s supposed to, and that she "can’t just flush those two years down the drain." And again, that’s just the way I understand things about her current expression. Only Bong knows what truly is drawing her closer to punch Life in the face and stop living.

I myself spent roughly 5 years convincing myself that I can just go through Computer Science for my parents’ sake and right after that I can devote my time to writing the way I want to. And everything will be fine.

But I have no interest in Computer Science. I could not say, either, that I get revolted by it. But I decided to take it because I felt neutral towards the course. Because my mother sort of convinced me it is the way to make money and I can always write freelance if I want to. Because my parents want me to earn a degree in UP. Because they do not allow Diliman where Creating Writing is being offered as it is too far. Because I won a DOST scholarship that I can enjoy under the condition that I take up a course DOST supports (e.g. Computer Science).

The result: 6 years in deep shit. I cut classes. I learned how to smoke and drink a lot. Some professors revolted me. I flunked numerous subjects. Although I did well in programming at first, it wasn’t enough. So now it all ends with that UP degree no longer viable. With all that money they all thought I would be able to earn impossible. And everyday I get to wonder what could have happened had I been granted the first option I wanted to take.

I live my life now by the day, with no apparent masterplan on how things are going to turn out years from now. And I am frustrated because 6 years ago I killed the possibility of becoming the writer that I want to be. I killed it when I took up Computer Science. I just realized that to become a good writer takes a lot of effort, and it cannot be "freelanced." It requires for me to be able to write daily so I can effectively find my own voice and hone it.

Everything’s too late now. And everyday it doesn’t fail that I feel suffocated by my own frustration. Because the voice that I want to find in my writing is buried somewhere deep in a pile of six-year-old CRAP. And it takes more than one blog entry a month to find it.

Turning 22

2005-02-17T14:30:00.000-08:00

a short film

Note: This motion picture has been modified from its original version to fit the screen.

9 AM. Our lead character reads a good three pages of Frank McCourt’s "Angela’s Ashes" before he gets to empty his cup of chocolate sundae. He’s had breakfast twice at home, but he decided nonetheless to drop by a nearby Jollibee branch to order an upsized ‘value meal’ and a chocolate sundae. After his sacrilegious third breakfast, he goes to a nearby barbershop to vacillate between getting his head shaved again, or getting no haircut at all. He wants to grow his hair long, as he’s done three times before, but at the same time he does not like how his hair has currently grown.

Our lead character decides to get a normal haircut. The normal haircut turns out to be devastating on the back portion. He does not know that until he meets up with a friend a couple of hours later.

A couple of hours later, he meets up with Braille, a friend. He owes Braille some money that is why they have to meet up. Our lead character and Braille hang out at Ecila, an outdoor restobar (I believe) with a quasi-Parisian feel at Ayala. It is right beside Starbucks so whatever Parisian feel it has dissolves after a split second. He orders a bottle of San Mig light and she orders some shake. They chat while he smokes about five sticks of Dunhill cigarettes. Our lead character usually enjoys a pack of Dunhill cigarettes every payday. After that pack, he switches back to Marlboro Reds.

1 PM. Another friend arrives. Vanessa. Vanessa tells our lead character that his haircut is devastating on the back portion. Our lead character makes a mental note to have his haircut redone the next day. Braille then leaves the two to meet up with her boyfriend.

At this point, our lead character shares that he does not know whether or not he should host some sort of birthday party that night. His birthday is the next day yet, but that night is the only feasible night for him to host some sort of party. He called up his friend Timothy to check if he could join them that evening. Timothy cannot as he has to defend his thesis the next day. Our lead character tries contacting his other friends. Only two of them can make it -- Debbie and Hope. Kristine has work so he does not bother contacting her. Kenneth cannot be contacted. Joy does not answer any of his calls. And Cecil and Mae have some errands to run.

Nonetheless, our lead character decides to host a tiny party that night for the benefit of Vanessa. There is a possibility that Jefferson, a boy that Vanessa was infatuated with, may be able to join.

2 PM. An officemate, Analyn, drops by to hand our lead character some money. The money is owed to him by another officemate. Our lead character asks Analyn who else is with her. She says "the rest of the sweepers*" and that their plan is to have lunch at Big Mao. He tells her that maybe he’ll drop by in a little while to say hello.

2.30 PM. Our lead character orders another bottle of San Mig light. Two other officemates drop by. First is Cyndee, who is on her way to a job interview. Second is Carina, who stayed to chat nonstop. Our lead character had been previously introduced to Carina but apparently they have forgotten each other’s names so they have to be re-introduced to each other by Vanessa.

3.00 PM. Vanessa, Carina, and our lead character decide to have lunch. As our lead character promised, he drops by Big Mao to say hello to the sweepers. Big Mao is a Chinese restaurant with an oddly Japanese feel to it. Vanessa and Carina follow suit and they decide to just have their lunch there. They order some bacon wrapped treasures and siomai and fried rice. After a few minutes, Cyndee arrives from her job interview and orders another dish -- crispy pancit canton. Our lead character gets so full that he feels like throwing up. After lunch, our lead character, Vanessa, Carina, and Cyndee walk around the mall. Cyndee decides to have her picture taken at Picture City. Vanessa, Carina, and our lead character stop by Penshoppe where our lead character mistakes the fabric steamer for a vacuum cleaner.

Left with no other place to go to, they go back to Ecila. They wait for Debbie and Hope to arrive before heading off to LUVU2, formerly known as U2. A lot of things happen while they wait at Ecila. Firstly, they chat. Secondly, Vanessa orders a slice of carrot cake. Thirdly, Joy confirms that she will be catching up with them. Lastly, Carina goes home to drop some things off then comes back.

Debbie and Hope then arrive. Debbie tells our lead character that she likes his haircut. When she sees the back portion, she says "Except for that."

Debbie and Hope then leave for a while to have dinner. Cyndee, Vanessa, and our lead character start taking pictures using our lead character’s camera phone. It is not exactly our lead character’s camera phone. He considers the keypad his, but the rest of the phone is owned for now by the credit card company.

9.00 PM. Our lead character, Vanessa, Debbie, Hope, Cyndee, and Carina arrive at LUVU2. It is a videoke bar with a normal videoke bar feel to it. Our lead character is disappointed that not all of his close friends are there. He aches for a time in history when he and the rest of his close friends could hang out anytime they wanted to. He starts yearning for that particular level of laughter only he and his close friends can share. He starts the evening by singing ‘King of Pain’ by Sting because our lead character is melodramatic enough a person.

10.00 PM. Joy arrives and helps out Vanessa and our lead character sing ‘Quit Playing Games’ by the Backstreet Boys.

10.07 PM. Jefferson sends Vanessa a text message saying that he cannot make it.

10.11 PM. Our lead character thinks that it has been a long time since he has written a poem.

10.30 PM. Bien arrives. He is another officemate. In reality, he is a former officemate. Just like Cyndee. Bien and Cyndee just resigned but our lead character is still in denial.

As a birthday gift, our lead character requests each of his friends to sing a birthday song for him. Debbie, with her excellent voice, sings ‘Uninvited’ by Alanis Morissette. Joy sings ‘I Don’t Want to Wait,’ by Paula Cole much better than Paula Cole does. Vanessa, in a perfect rendition, sings "I Wanna Dance With Somebody,’ by Whitney Houston. Bien, because he can sing the song very well, sings ‘I’ll Be Over You,’ by Toto.

As initiated by Carina, our lead character then closes his eyes while Carina lights up two lighters in front of him. Our lead character makes a wish. He is spiteful because it is supposedly an unimportant wish but he cannot help prioritizing it. Our lead character opens his eyes and blows the two lit lighters.

10:55 PM. Debbie hurries to the office as she has work at 11.00 PM. Our lead character feels bad that he may be causing her to come in late. He does not want her to be late. Tardiness has caused his life a lot of hell and he wants to have Debbie stay unmarred by the type of hell he’s suffered.

11.30 PM. Our lead character says to himself, "I should have been dead by now, I should have been dead by now...."

12.00 MN. Our lead character, according to the calendar, has turned 22. He realizes that a lot of things are too overdue for him to be thankful he’s lived another year. To close the evening, he sings ‘Be My Number 2,’ by Joe Jackson for no particular reason. He pays the bill and asks his friends if he should tip the waitress, who remains standing behind him after giving him the change. His friends say don’t. Our lead character wonders why he has to ask his friends whether or not he should tip the waitress when he himself is against tipping.

End.

* Sweepers is the term used for call center agents who work at "day’s end." They are the ones that are required to answer all the calls on queue before the bridge is closed so no more calls will get to their site.

Maybe I'm Amazed

2005-01-10T17:10:00.000-08:00

Me, I am devolving. I am twenty-one going on sixteen. In high school, I wouldn’t mind having this go public. But at this age, this should be embarrassing.

I am obssessed with television series The O.C. So obssessed that I watched the entire first season on DVD in three days. And since that did not seem enough, I started reviewing everything on the fourth day. And I replay scenes from the show in my head when I have nothing else to do. The wallpaper on my computer at the office is Seth Cohen. I have downloaded "California" by Phantom Planet and I play it three consecutive times before jumping on to the next track. I do not fail to discuss the show with my closest friends even if none of them has seen an episode. When the show won Best Drama at the 2004 Teen Choice Award, I had goosebumps. And the worst thing is, I do not give a fig that I am this old and like The O.C. That I totally buy the Seth-Summer romance. That I like the Seth Cohen character even if his way of talking is sometimes a bit annoying. Even if the official site claims that the character is reminiscent of Holden Caulfield and there is not even an ounce of justice in that.

I do not know why I developed this obssession with the show. Clearly it does not come close to the art that is Six Feet Under. Some of the acting on The O.C. even needs a bit of work, in my opinion.

Maybe I’m just amazed at the entirely different universe the show is portraying. I know I do not really want to be a part of that type of universe, but I just find it amusing. It makes me muse over what type of person I would have been had I been born rich. Will I be reading the same books as now? Love the same movies? Ache for the same unknown this world and this lifetime will never be able to provide me with? I am quite certain though that rich or not, I would never attain that level of happiness most people misconceptualize as existent, or latent, or possible.

Well maybe I got drawn to the show to make up for my not being able to appreciate shows like The O.C. while I was in high school. I abhorred Dawson’s Creek back in high school because the characters there had the vocabulary of a thesaurus and I couldn’t stand it. I like The O.C. much better because it does not try to be a show for intellectuals. And still it has the appropriate amount of wits and I would even find myself laughing out loud once or twice on an episode.

The O.C. also has a tasteful soundtrack. In each episode they always play at least one song that you’d want to look up and download. On the season finale, this girl sang a song called "Maybe I’m Amazed," which is originally by Paul McCartney and I could not get the damn song out of my head. I think I’m going to go out later this week to purchase a copy of The O.C. Soundtrack. God help us all.

Closure

2004-12-26T15:45:00.000-08:00

stream-of-consciousness 03.03.03

the last time we talked was on my birthday. i stepped right out of the carenderia where i was having supper with friends to answer your call (i didn’t want them to hear me speak the second language only a bunch of my kind could dread and unknowingly despise). you asked what i have been doing lately. i have not had anything to do at all these past few days, so how was i to know how to answer you? i’ve been reading, i said, which was partly true because i’ve been stuck with this really thick book written by ayn rand for weeks. i didn’t mention that what eats most of my time is my literally and figuratively staring at blank space, which has weighed on me like a pillow in my face, making it hard for me to breathe. i braced myself for that sudden jolt to flight i was used to feeling each time i speak with you, as though the cellphone network has that loose a traffic so as to have me fly over the distance from here to where you are and be in physical contact with you. but that didn’t happen. my sentences were lifeless, consisting of but one word that, before, would have meant panic on my part because it was you that i was conversing with, and that i was not worthy. but i only felt indifference that day, a sudden disinterest i couldn’t blame myself for. you have crushed my heart a lot more times and in a lot more ways than i should’ve allowed it. when we hung up i heaved a sigh of relief that i swear to god was accompanied by a powerful pull of the earth on my heart. that instant i felt i could explain how gravity was discovered. yet i missed to note a more important detail: that i was also being forewarned that a few days after that i was to acquire the courage never to answer any of your calls again. i didn’t tremble when I went back inside the carenderia. but i did find it difficult to finish my meal, and i masked it by talking with untoward gaiety which i hoped that my friends didn’t notice that it was my way of convincing myself that I will be okay.

Option

2004-12-24T13:01:00.000-08:00

Suddenly I got depressed. Depressed and frustrated and a little bit angry. I'm in the office right now and I cannot remember how but me and my officemates started talking about uncircumcised penes a few minutes ago. (Yes, penes is one plural form of penis. Another, of course, as is commonly used, is penises.) Our supervisor shared that he plans to give his son the option not to get circumcised, because he was not given that option.

I was not given that option.

Had I been, I would have chosen to stay... well... in colloquial terms... uncut. I believe the penis, in its natural form, would look much better. And though it may require a lot of hygeine work, I would not mind that. I also learned that sex would feel much better with a foreskin. And I hate the fact that that premise will always stay alien to me.

I also hate the fact that I was not given the option to choose my religion. Had I been, I would not have chosen any religion. Because I do not believe in religion, in prayers, in rituals, in that sort of pageantry. I would have chosen to just believe in God and nothing else, because there is no other explanation I could come up with why I am here.

So that is why I suddenly got depressed today. Because I started realizing there are several other things I was not given the option to be or have.

Like being born. This has never been my option.

* "Neitszche's Eyes" by Paul Cole plays. *

Ten Things to Accomplish Before Dying

2004-12-05T16:27:00.000-08:00

I amused myself today. I was rereading an old journal and got to the part where I wrote the ten things I wanted to accomplish before dying. The journal entry is dated June 24th, 2002. I was nineteen then. Twenty-one now, it amused me that at nineteen I should think I knew what I wanted in life. It also amused me that two years has passed and I still have not accomplished even one of those goals.

Tenth on that list is get a tattoo. I do still want a tattoo until now. And I know exactly on which part of my body I want it. I still could not think of any particular design, though. But if I do get a tattoo, I do know I want to give it a Sylvia Plath slash J.D. Salinger feel. Whatever exactly that is I still have to come up with.

Ninth on the list is donate to charity. I believe I remember why I thought of this. I saw a documentary shown during our Social Science class (yes, that Social Science class) and it somehow touched a nerve. It was about children being made to work to pay the debts of their ancestors. With all the work they do, it’s becoming impossible for them to go to school and develop the necessary skills so they can have better jobs, earn more, and pay the debts they were told were for them to pay. In short, they’ll never be able to move an inch in life, not even their children, or their grandchildren. The very thought pissed me off a lot, which is why I want to, in any way, do something that could improve that type of situation. Sadly, I am one that needs improvement as well, so those children will have to wait until I get to straighten myself out.

Eighth on that list is -- take note of this -- write a love song *squirming in my seat right now*. I believe the song I was crazy about at that time is "Paperbag" by Fiona Apple. Songs like "Paperbag" make me want to write one myself that is just as good, or even better, even if I’m not really a songwriter. I am not even close to being a songwriter. In fact, I have stopped denying to myself that I will never be a songwriter. But I still do intend to write a song, though. A nice love song. And I think I am going to write it in Cebuano.

Seventh on that list of mine is skydive/bungee jump. Right now I’m having second thoughts. Not because I’m too chicken shit to skydive and/or bungee jump but because I do not see the possibility of me being able to do either in the future. It just seems like there’s a lot of work involved, and for something which requires a lot of work, I usually need my friends to want to do it also. I guess I just need to propose that sort of thing to them one of these days -- when we’re finally accomplished individuals and before most of them could get married and have children and be an invalid for life.

Sixth is master a musical instrument. Right now I’m practicing the guitar. I’m still fumbling with the instrument, but I am improving on my "If We Hold on Together." Before I tried the harmonica but my niece broke it.

Fifth is sketch in precision. There was a point when I got crazy about doing portraits of people in pencil. I even bought different shades of Staedtler pencils one time. It’s frustrating. I want to draw someone’s face ‘precisely’ and ‘life-likely,’ but it ends up as a cheap work, like some homage to those Tagalog Romance novels of which the person on the cover is Justin Timberlake, but it really just looks like Justin Timberlake.

Fourth on the list that I came up with is give parents a huge sum of money so they can start some sort of business and have my little brother and sister finish school. This is an entirely different story, and if I go into this further right now I may kill myself.

Third is write and direct a movie. This is one of the impossible things one could ever wish for. But I am keeping an open mind. I will get to write and direct a movie, even if I have to sleep my way to have this realized. (There. Punchline.)

Second on that list is win a palanca. At this point, I’m feeling a lump in my throat. I have just realized that the closer I get to my first goal, the more unattainable the goal is.

First on my list is fall in love.

See! Impossible. Pakshet!

Post-Pilot, Why Breaking Point, or Something or Other

2004-11-29T18:00:00.000-08:00

DAYS after starting this blog, I have finally decided to write something more updated. The two previous entries are older manuscripts that I selected out of all the crap I keep in my hard drive. I couldn’t at first find myself courageous enough to capture a recent snapshot in my life and translate it into ink and paper. The main reason is that a lot of things have happened that I wish I could just shun lest I paralyze myself again in an intense suicidal condition. I remember vividly one evening about a year ago when I felt 99 per cent that I want to die. It was liberating and beautiful and disgruntling all at the same time -- disgruntling because I am still here, breathing despite my tremendous desire not to. What I did was I put my head in a plastic bag, wore a noose around my neck, and tried to asphyxiate myself to my heart’s content. Unfortunately, it was not entirely effective. All I could feel was blood being blocked from running to my head, which made my tongue curl up hard, and my eyes almost pop out... but I was still breathing fine. I felt that I could keep it that way until morning and still be alive. I even tried holding my breath several times but that did not work. No person, as we all know, could ever hold his breath voluntarily and have it that way forever. There is always that point in which he can no longer hold it and has to breathe again. That, as a friend told me, is called the ‘breaking point.’ And ‘breaking point’ is the root cause of why I am alive right now. I feared that the only things that will come out of that attempt to kill myself were bloodshot eyes and a bruised neck, and I do not want that sort of scandal. So I decided to still live that night, regretfully. And several nights after that I kept on reinventing the whole event in my mind, having it end the way I want it to -- and it never fails to give me a wicked lump in my throat.

I will eventually die through self-induction, though. I will make sure of that. Heaven knows that if I should find out I have this particular fatal disease or whatnot, I will kill myself first before it kills me. I also fear aging so I intend to beat that to the punch. For now, however, while I am trying my best to stay numb and ignore all those awful things that make me all the more convinced that I should die as soon as a minute from now, I will populate this blog with entries the term ‘breaking point’ can be a metaphor for.

Hopefully someone can relate.

Paper Cup

2004-06-17T03:04:00.000-07:00

My eyes traverse this whole side of the earth
in a paper cup.
I have emptied it a minute ago --
black coffee I almost spilled
when you asked me something
unanswerable

And yet I did answer
the same time I reprimanded myself
for having emptied the cup too soon.
I didn’t want to startle you
so I stayed silent about coffee particles
that have settled to the base:

They refuse to dissolve, continents of them
like how it must feel
to stay self, particulate
despite intimations of promises
I cannot dare unmask.
And I bask

At how well I hid from you
the strangest information of
their motility when I tilt the container --
paper cup whose rim I tore up
when I told you something
incomprehensible

Like time.

Seagulls

2003-04-01T22:20:00.000-08:00

THERE is this relatively cozy beach resort up north that me and my friends had gone to one time on impulse. It is relatively cozy because beach resorts are generally cozy, but that beach resort we went to, Parker Beach Resort, pales in comparison to the other beach resorts surrounding the island of Mactan. The reason probably is because it isn’t a vast beach resort. The beach is shared by two or three other beach resorts to both its left and right sides, the division marked by seawall-like constructions (until now I really do not know the English word for it). The artificiality of it all makes the sea less fascinating.

My friends and I went to the tip of one of the "seawalls" and stayed there as though the horizon were to be reached but that was the closest we could get to. I imagined we were seagulls doomed to stay there for all eternity because our wings were irreparably broken.

That afternoon, in fact, I had both of my wings broken, shot leisurely by no less than an arrogant college instructor who was handling the most uninteresting course I was enrolled in that semester -- Social Science I. I find him arrogant by the way he vouches to the whole class that a good way to eradicate prostitution is to legalize it. He raised a good point, in that if protitutes were to be legally recognized, less of them will pursue such line of work. No one, of course, wishes to be recognized as having a job generally spited. But he said it with so much certainty and self-admiration it made me retch. It would have been tolerable, though, had he not blended his arrogance with hypocrisy. But he is loads of hypocrisy. In one of his exams, he asked the question whether or not gay weddings should be sanctioned by the Catholic church. He marked my answer wrong for having said no. In my answer I reasoned that the Catholic church may not at all have to hold gay weddings, since homosexuality is something that the Catholic church discriminates. My point was, why should it be necessary to be recognized by the same institution that is first to look away when it comes to who you are and who you want to be with? But he marked my answer wrong. And whether I had said it well enough or not doesn’t matter. He was in disagreement with my opinion.

I guess he wanted to say homosexuality is something that should be unanimously accepted. Like I didn’t know it. Like I wasn’t one raving homosexual who could rub it in his face so hard the world will find out what a homophobe he really is.

I dislike him a lot. I dislike him not because that afternoon I found out he flunked me -- I totally deserved it -- but because he wasn’t one I could look up to well enough so I could take interest in his class and his opinions. He is, to me, no more than a bland thirty-year-old wizened by years of thinking he is beyond what he is, which isn’t so uncommon.

That was what brought us to the beach on impulse.

My friend, Carmen (not her real name), who flunked just as well as I did, suggested it after sobbing and cussing about all life’s injustice at the waiting shed outside our school. Her case was different. Her grade could have very well been a 4.0, which is redeemable, but our strictly reasonable instructor probably has it as a cardinal rule not to give out a grade of 4.0 even if that’s what the student really deserves and the course he is handling is merely an appreciation course.

The beach is such a place to seek unburdening. Dealing with a self-righteous instructor who places no portion of the blame on himself when a student of his fails felt like carrying the dead body of a person whom you didn’t kill alone, and there’s no other place to dump it to but the sea.
It was some distance we traveled, Carmen and I, and two more of our friends, Cecil and Abad (real names this time), who offered their sympathy. After two jeepneys and a tricycle we got to a beach in the neighboring island. We didn’t care which beach we were to get to. All we asked the tricycle driver was to get us to any beach at all where we didn’t have to pay for an entrance fee. The driver brought us to a beach resort where there are other beach resorts sharing the beach on either side. We didn’t care. Half of the four us was unburdening.

Until now I remember the smell of the sea, the smell of the rocks that smelt of the sea, and the faint sound of water gently splashing on all sides of the "seawall." It was relatively cozy.

I thought it was such a beautiful place to drown oneself.