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.

Of Mornings and Sundays

Mornings make me think about thoughtfulness and how it goes a long way for one person to sustain the challenges in store for the day. A breakfast invitation or a coffee fix is a gesture inducing hope that tends to wear off as early as the first ray of the day, because that is how life seems like for some people. Thank you for always glancing my way, making sure the most important meal of the day is given justice, and supporting caffeine as essential to the survival of humankind. However, mornings are but memories kissed on a paper cup now. I guess I must be more thoughtful to myself without you having to do that for me anymore.

Sundays make me think about being alone and how it is good to people’s sanity. Eating alone, watching a random movie all by yourself, picking a pair of shoes with no on to consult whether it looks good on you or not, and walking up and down the escalator unaided, are just a few things that are a joy to do even if you have no one to share them with. Thank you for showing me how being alone does not have to be lonely, how routines can feel like the first time each passing time, and how solitary is but a physical illusion when it is the state of mind that tells of the many people you are living for and would be willing to die for, despite limitations in presence. However, I won’t be bumping into you enjoying your solitude in a crowded food court or store fronts anymore. I guess I must get used to the idea of being alone as you would find happiness with.

There would always be that “I never got the chance to say” part of every painful goodbye, so I would spare my aching heart from that kind of sadness and never say anything I could not tell you to your face because that is no longer possible. But what I do have is a chance to make mornings and Sundays like the were constant life lessons and reminders of everything you never would have known you have taught me. This chance, I can never thank you enough.

I will forever miss you, old man.

Of Drink and Drive: An Analogy of a Journey

I did not mean to delay it but it just occured to me what I should have raised a glass to three days ago; It took a mini heart attack for me to realize that my road trip is finally making a detour.

It feels like a couple of mixed emotions. For one, I have this joy of completion, like finally making it to the finish line, but I know for sure there are lot of gears missing and might go missing. The whole crazy but fun jigsaw-like race course has been worth the trip, but it has left me with a feeling of being incomplete. Second, I have this huge excitement towards finally turning off the engine, but I know for sure that with the fuel left inside me, I might end up longing for the thrill of adventure, as I look back and look on the roads swirling around me. The whole idea of no longer being the person behind the wheel and finally being the one who has to experience the joyride might be exhilirating, but being all too familiar with the route, might just make me miss bumpy rides for a while. Nevertheless,  both set of feelings are like cocktails on a Friday night that give a sense of liberation with a cloud of challenge. They are frustrations over seatbelts snapped, fenders dent and gas run out, pacified by a bottle of faith and a shot of hope. It is the kind that leaves you tipsy in the wee hours of the morning trying to forget, and causes you a hangover every waking hour trying to move on.
This is definitely not the end of the road. There might be unique road signs and a lot of unknown destinations. I would even miss drag races, road rage, traffic jam, crossroads, flat tires, and a whole lot of fulfilling experiences (though sometimes annoying) of being on the road for quite a while.
Still, though some journeys are not meant for an overdrive, I will be here, reading my map, not feeling stranded at all, but more than ready to crash and burn with passion still alive.

Cheers to that.


The thing is, we can never fully figure out each other. We can only be but mere pieces of complexities, bits of wonder, and fragments of thoughts.

I say ‘hey’. You say ‘hey’.

And we know exactly when to say so, why on earth, and what the heck.

I type my favorite emoji. You type a very long HAHA.

And we hear clearly laughter bursting from both sides.

You ask about my day. I have nothing nice to say.

And coffee starts to brew so many things to share.

You ask a question. I answer you with a couple more questions.

And we both start to believe we get the answers we need.

I go rhetorical. You probe.

And we stay on our respective sides of life without having to be one-sided in our judgments.

I speak of rarity. You speak of misanthropy.

And we have spoken our own truths even if we may not always agree.

I experience crisis regarding my stand on destiny with our numerous debates on the plan of the universe, the randomness of existence, and life’s best laid plans. You maintain an abstract but lucid picture of your dreams about the future like there is no stopping you from weaving a galaxy out of the stars you hook your dreams on.

And dreams and destinies will always be the conversations I most fondly share with you.

Now before I cross the line of my innermost chords, before I’d be tempted to spill stuff supposed to be off the record, maybe I should just seal this with an expression of joy and gratefulness that you have been born, and the universe has led us to see through the words we have pressed, because for what it’s worth, you are one lucky girl for knowing me—I mean, I cherish having you knowing me, especially in times when I forget who I am supposed to be.

You are priceless piece, beautiful bit, a fancy fragment to my kaleidoscope, where everything is a stunning mess, and nothing has to be all figured out.

Happy 18th birthday, my Maki.