Dabbling with all sorts of things lately. It’s a flea market down here. Singing in my car takes me back to a certain time, all longing considered. I am thinking of a master’s degree in lit for when I finally make peace with my philo backlog. A summer in London for a course on Genocide although mindful of the rejection due to delayed requirements tarnishing my transcript. My growing TBR greeting me good morning everyday and just wading through the feeling of a looming defeat because of a rather ambitious aftermath, to have a voice and write for a living. A growing interest on teaching dyslexic children how to read. A stint on F&B for the noncapitalistic vision that is to elevate an aesthetic and a culture.

Trying so hard to be objective while doing away with anything that has a fixed character. I love somersaulting with whirlwinds but having numbered trajectories makes the next move precise. I beg to disagree, it is a false dichotomy. The bones are in their right places despite us all not being contortionists. All of us are not contortionists but our bones are hinged on similar places. Somehow. This is what makes us all the same yet different at the same time. Even on a dinner for one, this paradoxical simultaneity occurs. Here and maybe elsewhere. And that it may be foolish to desire clean maps with straight roads to navigate this life with.


Several times, the past had beaten us up with its heavy hand. It unlocked secret doors and let out the foul smell of dead dreams. It embarrassed us in moments we thought we owned. It forced us to sleep and caused us to wake up drenched in sweat.

Ignorant of martyrdom, we chose to forgive it anyway. Even if it doesn’t want to. We made peace with it anyway not so it can own up to the sutures but so we can free ourselves from the madness and loathing. Only then the wound should heal.

In the present, we are scarred. But we wear these scars like badges. For love to oneself. Time and time again. And for love once and for all.

How brave must living be. It is rather paradoxical that something so delicate and pure can empower us to look even the wildest of beasts in the eye. To wear love as an armor to a war of blood and terror.

How incomprehensibly beautiful.

When all comes to an end and everything turns to dust, may we be the legacy that gilded angels always wanted to leave but never had the chance to. Scattered across time and space, may our stories of love lacing and engulfing hate be remembered as if words to the first of first lullabies.

I’m writing this from my phone so it’s pretty casual. It’s two in the morning so don’t expect something brilliant. Or coherent.

I just have something to say. My heart has a little crack in it. My cat went missing. For fuck’s sake it’s just a fucking cat! It’s my cat. Attachments and all.

I miss him.

I find it really funny how I try to incorporate my humanness to this beast. We don’t speak the same language. Cat’s don’t talk, stupid. We don’t think the same way. So how? How do I know that all my conclusions are correct? But we do feel. That even how obscure the catness of my cat is, it does not rule out the reality that both of us are sentient beings. Is he sad? I am sad. If he is sad, is he sad for the same reasons that I am sad about? That I do not know. This leads me to another question: If he is sad and the sadness makes him want to go home, does he want to go home for the same reasons that I have which make me yearn for him to be found?

There is no sense in being less excellent and less beautiful. I think being lesser is hell. And hell, I think, is where I do not belong. This should be true for all of us. Believe that you cannot be mediocre and you can never be ugly. This should be the new golden rule, you know.

Who likes being stuck, anyway? An idiot martyr, maybe. One who likes doing things half-assly and looking like shit at the same time. What is that stupid martyr living for? Justifying the conditions which one believed to have caused the settling. Of course.

I’m too misplaced to be excellent. I’m too effortless to be beautiful. No. You’re too mediocre to be excellent. You’re too ugly to be beautiful.

Brunch is a way of life. I always wake up late and I do not exercise. I never make it on time for breakfast when the world is new, when minds are clear. But I don’t mind.

I’m the queen of open-faced sandwiches. Bread, mustard, pepper, eggs, and avocado if it is in season. As I looked down my cup of coffee before sipping from it, I saw splatters of mustard on my nightgown. A good, admissible evidence.

After the bread, after the coffee, I read a Frank O’hara poem. This whole order became quite a tradition to start a day. I came across As Planned somewhere and it kind of stuck around. It grew on me. It remained relevant regardless of the time of the day, the day, my feeling at the moment, my demands, my disposition. Maybe because I am the blank paper and it is what gives meaning to me and not me giving meaning to it. Like how poems are supposed to be approached. Or maybe I’m not just a poetry person and that I am doing all of this wrong. But I don’t mind.

As Planned
Frank O’Hara

After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called
La Petite and comes from Sweden
for they are words that you know and that
is all you know words not their feelings
or what they mean and you write because
you know them not because you understand them
because you don’t you are stupid and lazy
and will never be great but you do
what you know because what else is there?

Consider this first post as an experiment. Consider this as an experiment of someone who has not read a book in years. What she simply has is a terrible urge to write. Piercing. Consequential. She has words, too. Words that she know. Words from her mind. Words that she learnt from conversations with others or of others. She has thoughts, as well. Thoughts by the raw memories of actual living. Not by an inspiration from a book she has read. Consider this as an experiment of someone who has not read a book in years. Consider this first post as an experiment.