Another Love Letter

To the boy who will never know how much I love him,

There are still moments when I am reminded of the time when your dimples caused me to take a second glance at you, checking if the smile was for me. Those were small deep holes on a face of a brownie, of a boy who seemed to have a lifetime supply of positivity. I would never know of course if you were smiling at me, because I never took a chance to smile back.

There are still moments that take me back to the first time I got to know your name. Knowing your name flooded my heart with a unique kind of joy. How I froze when you reached out your hand to clasp mine, sealing a what would be like a special kind of friendship. After that, I immediately found myself writing your name on loose sheets of paper, on my literature notes, on my science laboratory reports, on the closing fly of my textbooks, even on thought clouds. However, only I would ever know that it had felt that way for me.

There are still moments when I turn a leaf of a page of a book you have borrowed from me once, listen to an old love song whose lyrics I have written on a bookmark for the book, or pass by a spot that we used to share to talk about common people and common lessons and common complaints about cafeteria food or unfavorable class schedule, and I start to think about the little things that I forced to ignite a spark between us two. Back in the days, we also often talked about how it had been much of a coincidence how we always found each other needing the same book, looking for our classrooms on the same floor, or walking our way home at the same time. What you didn’t know was that nothing was coincidence. I knew you would be there and I wanted to be in the same place and time with you.

There are still moments when I am stuck at replay of the time you would mindlessly hold my hand to see if a ring taken off a Coke tin can would fit my finger; or of the time when you run off a basketball game to break the news to me that you have ended it with the girl you used to like; or of the time I got too excited to see you the day after you got your freedom back, leaving a request of your heart for me to wait a little, but when I did see you, you were still with her, and I could not stop the tears from falling with the raindrops that felt like the skies were crying for me that night. The moments were like scenes from a chick flick that seemed to be having its share of dramatic irony. I can still memorize the sound of my heart breaking and you never knew you have caused me quite a lifetime of pain.

There are still moments that I have wished to undo so many times: taking a second glance at you, reaching back for your hand, stopping to hear you out, sitting right next to you, walking home with you, sharing the same staircase and hallway with you, using the same book, and liking the same songs. I wish to undo all of them because they have led me to the agony of waiting for you to like me. I have liked you since the first day I saw you smile and I looked back to see you smile again, up to the last day you walked away and looked back to flash the sweetest smile I have ever seen, and I would never see again. You would never know how the longing of my heart to see you smile again has brought upon me years of torture whenever moments that remind me of you seem not to mind a good time to be felt once again. These moments just barge open the door to my heart that has never find its closure and then start ripping off the stitches of the heartbreak that you have left me.

There are still moments when I wish I could say all these things to you and you can actually see me straight face with that oh so beautiful smile that has swept me off my feet, and tell me if these moments that I have kept hidden in a special place of my heart only for you, also mean something to you, or maybe not. But I could only wish the impossible. This is perhaps why time is of the essence when you are in love. We cannot always say that there will be another time to say the things that our heart screams.

When the boy that you like smiles at you, there should be no doubt nor worry. Go ahead and smile back. When he bumps into you in the hallway, borrows your book for history class, walks home with you, even if you have gotten everything planned out by securing his class schedule and list of subjects, go ahead and give him a hint of your feelings or tell him right away. The worst thing you will probably get is rejection. At least you won’t have to nurse a broken heart and never have known what he feels about you the first place. You could move on and look back to the memory of him as the boy you used to like but never liked you back, rather than a boy who never knew that you loved him.

This is our catastrophe. You will never know. Or maybe you know already, but how would I know that you already do? What would you want to tell me now? How would you seal the open wound of my broken heart? A couple of years or so after I last saw your smile, I heard that the angels paid you a visit a lifetime too early. I would like to believe they also fell in love with your smile. I appease my heart with the thought that your smile would make heaven even brighter. I have comforted my sad heart with the thought that you are a bottle of positivity and heaven would be a perfect place for you. Since then, I thought of the times when I would have weary good night dreams and sad daydreams about you. I seem not to run out of prose to write about my unrequited love, of a little crush that has never known closure, of a special friendship that I will forever miss. I guess I cannot stop writing love letters to heaven just yet. It is taking me forever to forget you but could I blame you? That smile. Those dimples. My heart cannot rest with thoughts of you. There will never be goodbyes for now, as my heart continues to ache. It feels bad to be among the people who were not given the chance to say goodbye to you, the boy who will never know that I love him.



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?


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.


At the moment, I feel like I have ticked off the things I need to do for the day but at the back of my mind I know I have more checklists to attend to.

At the moment, I feel hungry that I want to splurge on every piece of junk food sold at stalls nearby where there seems to to be a great celebration over suspension of classes because it is sports fest season, but my pocket seems to be unwilling to take that splurge and my weary mood won’t stand a second amidst the festivities.

At the moment, I enjoy the sound of the tapping of the keyboard that I do while writing down this blog as well as the synchronous ticking of the clock telling me to not waste time away over blogging because I have letters to send out and reports to accomplish, but I am pretty much enjoying myself all rambled up in this piece I am writing so the heck with deadlines.

At the moment, I want to grab my bag, put on my earplugs, touch my playlist on shuffle and let the first song decide how I shall feel the moment, but let me unplug all sockets first and turn off all the lights because it is already way past my official duty hours.


[Image not mine]
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Then what?

We all say things we mean and we don’t mean when we are drenched in pain and hatred. As the pain numbs us and the hatred becomes too familiar, we weave a new thread of hope that things will get better in time and the horror that pain and hatred have made us confront can just be treated as another bad dream. Yet, bad dreams always haunt us no matter the time and distance. I am still haunted by the face of stranger I meet in you whom I thought I have known all my life. I am scared of ever seeing that stranger again. When you finally said you were sorry, I did not intend to accept it, but I did. People might call it cowardice when I did not do what I was supposed to when you ate all your despise of me the moment you said you were sorry. I want to call it a shot for a clean slate. I never want to remember nor be reminded of how awful it had been to amount our feelings to hatred. Neither do I want to fake my true feelings at the moment and make you feel that I have strong regard for you when the truth is, I cannot even bring myself to force a smile feeling threatened of what could trigger again the horror I never want to face once more. The truth is, I cannot afford to be loving at the moment. I just want it to be over and start anew and in starting anew I mean having no feelings at all. No love. No hate. But you will never know that. It is a thread I shall weave for myself not knowing what happens next. You will continue to believe what I offered you was a chance although to me that chance has erased all memories of the past, good and bad. You have turned me into a stranger. I hope it shall be nice to meet you again. I hope we shall find the love we have lost somewhere. But we really do not know…

7 of 366

What is it with 7 and luck?


I’d rather be grateful than lucky.

Yes, I talk to the universe and all, especially when an awful fist of luck knocks me out like a domino falling, hitting me hard one blow after the other…or when nothing seems to be going my way no matter which way I go…or even when everything is dead blank and pitch dark yet and still the stars are too flicker on me…mostly, during the times I have to have something to blame and I could no longer force the blame on myself or to anyone. Yes, I do talk to the universe when I feel that I am the unluckiest earthling alive. It would seem like I am believer of luck. I may seem to be. But luck has never been kind to me. I even doubt if it ever exists.

Maybe when the universe is being less of a bitch and is starting to force a ray of good luck upon me, I am really not lucky at all.

Luck is too random to believe in and the universe is too bitchy to be nice to a random and insignificant earthling like me. But there is a stronger force, greater force behind the universe that makes me feel grateful instead. I am ever grateful, oh yes, I am, that as days fall off, I may falter but I don’t end with them.

Today marks the 7th day of my new year. With or without luck, I am grateful. With or without stars, I am grateful. I am grateful because I am alive to count up to this day that is about to end.

Tomorrow is another shot at winning fist fights with the universe.

Bring it on.