Of Missing Mood

I still see you. I still feel you. I still hear you. I still speak of you.

I guess my senses will always perceive you even if I can no longer meet with you, cling on to you, listen to you or talk to you. It has been 14 years, but no one has ever taken your place in this quiet void inside my heart that continues to long for a friend who has all the right words to say, whose mere presence says everything that life refuses to give meaning to.

You were the only person who knocked on my heart, begging the monster that had taken over me to bring my old self back because you thought it was not like me to shut everybody out. To ask to be left alone. To just accept the fact that everyone was turning their back on me. You did not yell at me because I was being stubborn to accept my flaws. You wrote me a letter instead, opening it with the words: “knock knock? Is my best friend there? Can you please bring her back?” You just thought maybe I was just going through a bad day, menstrual cramps or whatever, and understood me completely. Then you waited for me to open the door. Of course there was no door. It was only a magic from your prose. And I will never forget that day. I cried hard in isolation because you all left me as I asked you to, but I was being stubborn, eaten by my pride, to come to you. That day taught me how to say sorry even if the why’s were vague because you needed your friends back and they won’t take you back until you destroy the walls you built yourself.

I was glad you knocked when all of them slammed the door on me.

From time to time, I still get consumed by that monster you thought to be eating me. Bad days do not last forever but they do come around, and they would, forever. I still want to be left alone on bad days. I still let people turn their backs on me when I cannot insist on them to embrace my flaws. I still shut everybody out when words run out, when all the talking is done and exhausting. And it gets lonely and tiresome at times. No one dares to knock anymore. There has been no one but you who could choose the right words to say that would tear me into pieces just so I could hem my tattered spirit back again.

And I miss you each time.

Whenever someone leaves me words on sticky notes or scratch pads: a cheer, a reminder, a quote, I am reminded of the many notes we used to pass on to each other, and the letters we used to send, that chronicle how our days had been, because we did not belong to the same class, and you were seated next to my crush and I was seated next to yours. We had to hide behind codes for the stuff going on that needed real-time updates, then when sms, pms, dms, tweets and statuses did not exist to save us from the trouble of getting caught. As we ceaslessly wrote to each other, it was the love for writing that bloomed more than the unrequited love we both waited for from our seatmates. You molded my way with words with your beautiful ways of saying things. You were always a pleasure to read. You showered me with quotes every single day, and I owe from you the adage that has become my mantra: Don’t just flow with life; make waves. Yes, you gave this priceless quote to me, and it shall ripple on.

Thank you for believing in me.

You were always the most thoughtful one. You always put me first in thought, in words, in feelings. Sometimes I had felt quite a burden to our friendship because you were always worried of me when I could not even take a second glance at myself. When I did not want to join the slumber party because I was too tired to plan out what to wear, you drew me on a piece of construction paper, with labels from head to toe as to how I should bring in myself to the party. From the way I should do my ponytail, to the top I must wear (with a naughty reminder to shave because you have chosen a haltered or sleeveless one), even the belt (because you thought plain jeans were boring), down to the footwear— I wondered how you had all the time in the world to memorize my lame fashion sense, the limited outfit I owned, and my obvious tendencies to avoid the party because I’d rather be sleeping. I can still picture that portrait that you had on me on some loose sheet of paper lying around the bench that day. High school was too long ago but I think I still get conscious on how I must do my ponytail because you believed that I look better when I wear it higher. I am forever grateful for your honesty, sincerity and concern. I was the ugly one, but you had made me see beauty in myself.

And I’m glad that I believed you.

Sometimes, whenever I come across a nice quote, a good book, thoughts on post-its, whenever I hear or read an unexpected little cheer, honest affirmation or sincere appreciation to my mere existence, whenever I am being looked after, cared for, worried about, I would like to believe you are trying to let me see you, feel you, hear you, or talk to you because you miss me too. Because I cannot stop missing you. Because there will never be anyone like you, but I can no longer run to you. Without you here, you still make me feel that I am worth all your while to be thought of.

What have I done to deserve your eternal and selfless love?

Just so you know, I still see you. I still feel you. I still hear you. I still speak about you. I will do, for all of my life.

I love you , Kate. Always.


Of Science and Faith

“You won’t find faith or hope down a telescope. You won’t find heart and soul in the stars. You can break everything down to chemicals, but you can’t explain a love like ours.” -Science and Faith, The Script

Sometimes I wonder how my biology, my chemistry and my physics will ever be superior over my basic human knowledge, or at least be a healthy match to my common sense. These so-called branches of knowledge always keep me up at night trying to make sense out of things I could not even figure out. How could I live a life of accuracy and balance when I doubt the sincerity of symbiotic relationship, when I do not fully trust the strength of covalent bond, and when I cannot fully embrace the law of inertia?

I do not speak the language of science, but science speaks to me on a daily basis, making me think immensely of things that matter in a scale that my faith finds too deep to fathom at times. My science moves with me every single time, and no matter what complexity it brings and leaves me arid for answers, I could not last a day without its sweet torment of making me resort to thinking and question everything that transpires over the day, the month, the year, even the minutes and the seconds.

Symbiosis is a good thing, but sometimes I feel like it is just a lame excuse for some people to make up for the limitations that they are too naive to surpass. Reliance as a virtue becomes corrupted, when people take advantage rather than work hard and earn justly their spot in this planet. 

Similarly, most people promise they have your back, only to realize in the end that they have your back to stab. You bleed for them anyway, because you believe that you still have to be human, until you bleed to death for betrayal that you have become a monster yourself. 

If this is how tragic dependence or having someone to rely on turns out, why do I have to help keeping a balance? 

I cherish mutualism anyway.

There is strength in unity, inspiration in reaction, and joy in interaction. These realities seem divine, like the power of an atom. Still, to keep a bond, you have to be necessarily strong. This is where I feel insecure about bonds, and I hope it is just normal to feel this way. 

I guess no matter how hard you try, at some point, you will wear out and get consumed. If not you, others would. We do not have the monopoly of power in this world. When times like this come, it will almost feel impossible to hang on or even find a string to hang on so the bond won’t snap. Eventually bonds do break. No. Matter. How. Hard. You. Try. Well this is life: you lose some, you gain some, you share some. That is just how it is. 

Knowing there will always be bonds is a nice deal after all.

I hope my high school physics memory serve me right that inertia has something to do with the fact that something not moving will never move, and something moving will continue to move, unless something else (a force maybe) affects it. How I wish life was that simple! Or is it really? As if we have a lot of choices in this life to wait for a force to get us moving or keep us moving. I hope I am not the only one believing that this life is unfair, because it is. 

Who would not want to stay in bed all day? To not set the alarm for the next day? To not think about tomorrow? To not have plans? And yet make life happen? Physics does not work accurately in most lives I’ve known. You have to move and keep moving even if there seems to be zero motivation to get going because life will not stop for you. It is just how it is.

 With or without a choice, with or without force, we all have to get moving. Being stuck is just an illusion. Keeping pace is a mere diversion. Being ahead on track is but a dream. This life is all about moving and that is all. 

The good thing though is, there will always be somewhere, and that is beautiful enough to look forward to.

My science sustains me, no matter how messed up it can be. Just like faith, it reminds me that there is more to life, to existence. That is why thinking is good, even if thinking exhausts you, keeps you up all night, frightens you, saddens you, confuses you, challenges you, weakens you, kills you. If I were not to think, what will I ever do to the endless questions that my mind generates? It is not like I have the power to make the birth of questions stop. I barely have answers in this lifetime. Faith, however, assures me, that there are answers; some answers just take time. My science is probably a mess. Still I am grateful for I have faith.

I guess I will continue to get by in this life with a little reason and a little wonder.


Too wordy. 

I get that remark all the time. What if I would be given the chance to appear unedited, like my written thoughts were a director’s cut of a film? How I wish I would truly have that chance and still not be judged for my syntactic struggles.

Whenever the tip of my pen is about to code overlapping dependence, or attempts to build excessive modification, I know my musings are about to turn into nightmares. Still, like drug to my diction, I allow the manuscript to be heavy on words, because suppressing the “breathings of my soul” might just suffocate me or leave me dry. 

Sometimes, fragments are the riddles I’ve been looking for to stitch together the broken pieces of the entire truth. I find pleasure in using numerous fragments to trigger nerve impulse by every torn tale, ripped reality and fractionated feeling. I know there is a more grammatically acceptable structure than my disintegrated dogma, but sentence fragments are the literary bricks that complete my thoughts. Without them, I might break apart. Literally.

Consider revising.

This is the expert advice I often get, and rarely consider. I have tried resolving this internal conflict I have with the writer who writes and the writer who’s right, trapped inside me. I am not done trying yet though. I still have debate skirmishes inside my head if I wish to be a writer or right-er because trying to be both seems to be an endless struggle. 

And I just want to write. Does it have to be that hard?


Words are all I have, which is why I sometimes do not have enough of them to express substantially my point, so I end up saying “actually” or “technically” over and over. In the same way, at times,  I only have  a word or two to deliver my exact point, like “exactly” or “precisely.” These verbal tics, annoying as they seem, turn out to be the excellent choices for conversation starters and terminators after all. 

What would I ever do without them? 

We have all been in boring and not so boring classes in high school, and the only thing that has kept us entertained is drawing sticks on our notes to tally a word that our teacher would say over and over again. As we grow older, we realize that some old habits die hard, and we continue to build fences on memo pads whenever we are trying to make it out alive of a staff meeting or conference, because the one presiding seems to end each statement with the same word. 

Sometimes, we wonder, there are over a hundred thousand words in the dictionary, but why do people have to keep on repeating but one?

What is more interesting is, to some people this tic manifestation is categorized as a disorder. While parents of children with autism worry over their children’s pathological speech behavior, here I am, merely making a complex deal out of my self-diagnosed palilalia, as my own form of withdrawal from being annoyed with myself, because denial and anxiety get the best of me whenever my mind stalls for a better way to enunciate my thoughts. While it is a disurbing language disorder to some teens and adults, we belong to that portion of the class perhaps who take this disordered speech patterns of our teachers or colleagues as a thing to make fun of. 

Why is that?

Amidst burning issues and challenging situations, we do run out of better words to say and take diction for granted, to a point that we trigger the red light for language check. Still we scald our tongue with words like “crap” and “damn” (I have to filter the real words for these two) over and over again, meant or half-meant. I guess this is the same feeling when we say “okay” or “alright” though we never mean them, because these are all we can comfortably say to avoid having to explain ourselves or telling the truth about our feelings. This is the same as well when we say “I was like” or “you know” when there isn’t really something like it or no one really knows, but we say it repeatedly anyway because we “literally” have nothing else to say. 

Are we better off running out of words to say then? If I do, what do I say?

Non-linear Thoughts

I am starting to believe my brain is a briefcase of graphic organizers.

How I wish I could sort my thoughts in compartments and mentally label them, each time I have to challenge my own reasons behind decisions that I make by every turn of the clock.

 How I wish I could trace back the dots I connect in my mind in a trail of wise guesses and second guesses just the same, each time I demand from myself the validation of my own principles. 

How I wish I could cross over timelines in my brain and relearn or unlearn the tricks and trades of banal existence, each time I look for better options than the ones that I thought were already the best.

How I wish I knew how to declutter my brain, because I am beginning to feel that this mind map I carry with me is not only divine but also deadly. 


Coffee never asks questions. Coffee understands.

There comes a point in your life when silence turns out to be your dearest friend, and coffee keeps you both satisfied, although it can never pour fillings through the holes in your heart.

My love affair with coffee is more than just a fad or fling. Coffee has saved me from a lot of raw truths I could have said in the wrong way. In numerous instances, coffee has kept me from making a big deal out of harsh realities that were better pondered on and left unsaid. If I were just drinking coffee for the heck of it, I would not act like my life were dependent on it, because it truly is. It is not an act. I am truly living with a strong reliance on coffee to fuel me, to sustain me, to resuscitate me, to restore me.

Coffee is both lifeblood and lifeline. 

I am trying to be hopeful that this dependency is not a bad thing, because sometimes, (or most often than not) I credit to caffeine the tiniest drop of confidence I have to face daily mundanities. Living a life measured by coffee spoons is reality for me, even if there may be shades of meaning along with it. I have had my fair share of misfortunes but most of these frustrations have been caffeine-fixed.

Still, though a potent stimulant, there are a lot of actualities that coffee can never change, heal or subdue, whichever is necessary. Coffee can only help get past murkiness and sharpen the edges. To me, this is more than enough consolation. 

Give me coffee or give me death. I rest my case.

Time Check

I notice how every second seems to race with my heartbeat. I notice how the clock seems to give me mini panic attacks all the time. I notice how time seems to run out so fast.

What I do not notice is that, every second lasts the same way, the clock works the same way, and time goes by the same way.

I never want to notice how the clock strikes every hour because I know that I have not stricken out enough items on my to-do list. I never want to notice how the clock stays undaunted by pressure while I disintegrate at every turn of the clock. I never want to notice how the clock feels unthreatened when deadlines are undeniably gruesome.

I wish I could trade places with a clock even just for a second. But I can’t help but wonder, will it ever change how I battle against time—time and time again? I guess not.