Postlapsaria

Maybe I'm just one of the ordinary students you get to see in school. Or maybe not. We didn't really know each other personally, but let me just thank you and thank God for bringing you into our lives. You are such a great teacher and I'm sure everybody knows that. A great friend perhaps. A person of a great mind. It's true that we don't realize one's value unless it's gone. To me, people sound so hypocrite telling you how good you've been, thanking you for everything, saying how much they love you. I wonder why just now, why only when you're gone already and everything seems untimely. But this time I opt to be one of these hypocrites, in hopes of letting you know and making you feel how much impact you've left to me personally. For the last time even if it's too late. CELLBIO has been a tough subject. I'm mediocre and oftentimes unable to get concepts in an instant. I got a passing mark on our first exam and that's enough for me I have to admit. In your class, for the first time I was able to endure the hours without having to stop taking down notes, which was unusual when it comes to my other subjects. Maybe what's left to me of you are the complete notes I was able to accomplish on those times that you were in front, teaching your heart out. I don't know Sir, everything turned gloomy. I felt sad. I realized how short is life. I don't know what to say. It was so fast. But who am I to question this? Let me just say thank you Sir. This is my sincerest gratitude for that short time you've been there. I'll meet you someday in heaven.

When I fall in love again

Reminds me of the days when I'm gonna have to force myself to sleep (just because you know it's just nakakasenti) as the radio plays this song. It's so high school but never gets old. Perfect when you feel like going emo lol. I love this.

Sleep is priceless

1. I woke up this morning feeling so unaccomplished. The approaching deadline of the supposed review of related literature (no shorter way to put it) of the thesis proposal and the good scent of unflipped pages of my cell biology book failed to convince me to wake up at 6, be at school at 7 (to study coz I can't study at home or I choose not to), go to mom at 11 and submit the journal by lunch time. The plan is ruined once again, ladies and gentlemen.

2. Today is the LEAP (Lasallian Enrichment Alternative Program) day when students get to attend alternative classes in lieu of the regular ones. It's ironic in my case that La Salle's annual university week comes with an even more laborious set of things to do. Nevertheless, I feel so lucky that I had tried yoga today for the first time for my alternative class. And everything was wonderful again!

3. I stayed in school after the yoga class, from 4 to 9 to study. For that matter, congratulate me please.

4. I was having diarrhea the whole day! It must be the nuts from last night. (Coz nobody gave me chocolates. Chos!) So before getting myself on to this keyboard it has been, on the least approximate, my 10th time of having to go to the restroom and release all... those... watery stuff.  Ick!

The object of surprise

It has been more than a month since my last term in school has started and already it's making me feel that there's no more turning back. I am currently working on a thesis proposal and despite the fact that I will no longer have any semblance of life, fun whatsoever once this phase is over, I'm looking forward to finally be one more step towards the star... at least for now. This week is going to be hell of a fight. Of course I convince myself to seem more excited than how I sound now lol

Apparently I'm sick of having swings of insights. At times I'm imbued with deep motivations and unluckily they as often change to something lethargic. It's a cycle. And also, it's strange that I rarely dream. In a literal sense.

Unfinished

A huge smile is drawn on Mang Jun's face as he walks down the street corner where the jeep he's been driving for 9 years now is garaged. It's 5:30 in the afternoon and the daylight is nearly fading. The sky is orange and covered by thick atmosphere layers of dust and pollution. He took a deep breath as if everything is nice and new. Happy go lucky in nature, Mang Jun whistles to the sound of occasional air as he burped out and smell the fresh scent of tinola his wife Aling Linda cooked for early dinner. Mang Jun came from the province of Bukidnon.

I eat words for breakfast

Hi it's been a little while. I am back again to the wonders of renting a computer. My laptop's charger is dead again and I totally hate the feeling of having to borrow my sister's. So anyway I noticed these days that I keep on isolating myself and I hate how people have been whacking that on to me. Don't answer that. I mean don't even bother to ask. Because for all you know, neither do I know why. But yes it feels good at times. Also I am being successful in solving this jigsaw puzzle and I know sooner or later I'll be able to figure this picture out. Lastly, I am planning to donate blood before I turn 18. Is that even allowed? I really hope so.

"You Should Date an Illiterate Girl"

By Charles Warnke (Jan. 19, 2011)

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.