Again, music saved me.
Listened to this and I know I have to get out of this rut.
A new day begins.
Again, music saved me.
Listened to this and I know I have to get out of this rut.
A new day begins.
Let me tell you a story.
This story may be about a demon or me or you, but that doesn’t matter really.
He walked the earth but his heart was not there. It was engaged in the place where your thoughts often wander, especially if your heart is not keeping up with what you do.
Yes, like all demons, Michal does have a heart.
Though to say it is a good or pure heart would be to go too far. It still is fact that Demon hearts do not fill with blood but with the agony inflicted upon mortals – the more agony produced, the stronger the heart becomes.
And Michal, our demon, has indeed a very strong heart. But as you already know, now it is not with him but in the nameless-place-where-hearts-often-wander.
There, his heart met The Question.
And now as he prowls the earth looking for willing puppets, them of the agony-inflicting type, The Question continuously takes root in his heart.
“Why do I exist? Am I really meant to be here? To be doing what I’m doing? And if I am, if I am no accident, then who or what intended for it? What…who is my creator? Why?”
The Question – it mutually seeks out all hearts and meet them all in due time. It captures yours in unexpected moments, and from then on, never really leaves.
Appeased, ignored, suppressed, but still there.
And it leaves no body, no being out – Living, Dead, In-betweens, Angels, Demons, Guardians – all of their hearts The Question will meet.
For all of them will take part in the event.
That which everything that was, is, and about to happen are mere necessities, preparation perhaps, all leading to the one reason why anything at all exists.
The Demon already knows this but cannot recall it. Like everyone else, it is vital for his being that The Knowledge should not interfere with the present, hence the overshadowing by present trivialities.
But one always needs to be reminded, thus the constant seeking of the answer to the purpose of one’s existence.
And in that nameless place where all hearts eventually wander, we all find our reminder – consciously or otherwise.
So that’s the story.
It is as much about me as it is about Michal or you or the queen of the damned or the president of the Jews.
Why, I think you know.
“Now, now you heard it,
Tales most far from sweet,
Her music gentle, clear,
Yet each note hides a tear,
From Great West to Far East,
Rough North, Treach’rous South,
Where songs begin, nurtured,
Melody she sings to you now.
You may or may not believe,
She only speaketh what she sees;
No friends, enemies, allies, or foes,
The Wind simply exists -
To collect mem’ries long forgotten,
Tales without her would’bin lost,
An’ when End arrives she’ll bring it,
To Time, waiting on his post.
But End still lies in slumber,
The World sees not his face,
But you, m’dear, have met him,
Now you must leave this place.
So hold my hand now, don’t fear,
For I am only Death,
To other worlds we’ll venture,
A new tale you must set.”
This gallery contains 1 photo.
There are people you notice, and there are those whom backgrounds just tend to swallow. Perhaps if in one particular background a crime took place in which you happened to bear witness, then asked by the authorities to describe in full detail what you have seen, you would unintentionally left out these people from your …
I know it’s a little late for the latter, but then again…
Let me start by sharing to you the works of my, err,
good friend, Landix.
“The Deal” created for the story Tales of the Wind’s Kiss: Devil’s Child
“Le Pedofile“, this time for Tales of the Wind’s Kiss: Music Box
Now tell me you think they’re horrifyingly beautiful.
I know, I know.
It’s vital you understand here that Landix is a lunatic. I asked for his permission to place a link here to his website but the doofus declined. Yes. Crazy, just crazy I’m telling you.
But he’s also really good, so it’s not much of a question why I collaborated with him. At least to me.
Really now, Landix is not all that bad. A little crazy, but an artist and more importantly, a friend. You’ll be seeing more of him soon. Well, I hope.
Now second, my niche.
I started this blog without much of a niche – more of decided to make an outlet for my random thoughts, rants, and music I’m too chicken to share to my mainstream outlet – the magnificent FB. I was just putting random brain droppings time and again. But very recently, it just dropped on me one late night staring-at -the-ceiling-with-headphones-at full-blast session.
My niche would be to tell stories.
I know it’s another kind of brain droppings, but at least brain droppings you can categorize. Blame it on my control freak streak. But yeah, I have decided to communicate with the world in a new way. This time I’ll use an old friend, “fiction”.
I’ve always loved stories. I learned to read because I was told those boring-looking things called books hold so much of them. I look forward to my father’s bedtime stories as a kid. As a teen, with great reluctance, I wore glasses because I won’t give up this love for stories. The glasses grew thicker with time. Yes, until now.
Maybe it’s the little truths stories always have, even though we call them “fiction“. Many men, women, and children could attest to the great power some of these little truths hold. Still, some of them are also just as what they seem, little.
And yet, it doesn’t make them any less.
I guess I will always love stories. It’s really not something you can stop. It’s part of what makes you you. Or me. Yeah, you get it.
So, logically, I created stories simply because. Like water flows because it is meant to. Like the wind dances and, yes sometimes, destroys. Destiny. Fate. Or simply choice. A choice made with ultimate love.
And like how some people treat their dogs, their dolls, or those things I think come from another planet (they say it’s called cars), I treat these stories as my babies.
There’s only one thing I ask of you. Love them or hate them, but treat these stories with respect. At core, they really meant good. For no story is evil by itself. They are what we, people, make of them. Respect them, and they will pay you back for it.
They always do – or else.
Now for the third and most important part.
Readers, Likers, Commenters, Haters, Followers, Spammers, and my dear Friends, human or not…
I thank you.
For what? Many, many things. Perhaps for licking mooses, for fighting for kids, for sharing less noticed beautiful works of art, for adding beauty to the world, for being a shcmuck of a clown, and a gazillion other as important reasons.
But most of all, for acknowledging that THIS exists.Of course, you know what I mean.
It’s easy to talk about people’s failures especially if they’re not closely related to us. That way, there’s little chance for embarrassment from being caught. Ironically, they usually find out about it anyway and we don’t really learn our lesson every time they do.
Maybe at core, sans regards to norms and mores, we really meant to be rude (I already talked about that here).
Months have passed since I last hung out with my friends. Like always, we kid, we chat about what’s going on with who, show business’s latest fails, and of course, the latest gossip – oftentimes about people we always see but never really talk to (thus, not getting the whole picture, which in turn makes it the more interesting to speculate about their closet skeletons). They’re simply the easiest targets.
It’s all really easy and fun! For a while.
Then you go blurt out one stupid line concerning religion’s flaws/increasing number of beggars/worsening state of the environment/a really awesome graphic novel/psychological explanations behind people’s behaviors/relationship between heavenly bodies and character traits/ballooning rates of divorce and abortion/the horrors of the economic environment/the justice system’s impending collapse/other things you’d WISELY not mention in a light chitchat over ice cream – and everyone turns silent.
At least for three seconds.
Then there would be those genuinely curious/concerned who respond with a question or an honest opinion about it. But 90% of the group will usually either stare at you as if they’ve seen someone who wears a denim shorts in a formal dinner (it surely isn’t illegal?) or maybe develop a sudden, very profound interest in a single focal point – usually their fingers or the floor.
It’s vastly irritating.
I also know I would probably regret that line since there still is a slight chance one or two of my darling friends will be reading this. But then so be it. Everyone must know how it feels to be an outcast once in a while. After all, we all exert efforts (consciously or otherwise) to fit in every single day of our lives. It’s simply unrealistic to, or expect to, succeed every time.
I know I don’t.
(But really, it’s written about a year ago. I’m a worse writer then. You can back out now.)
Who am I?
A question that continues to haunt man since time immemorial. But what is it that keeps him from finding the answer to that ever daunting question?
It asks not only your name or age but what makes you an individual, a separate entity and not just a statistic in an ever expanding society. If I tell you ʽI am Jenny, 19, and still a student’, can you say that you already know me?
So the question remains – who am I? I am me. But another question follows. What makes me me? That is the most difficult part. For you see, I can say that I am a daughter, a son, a student, a Christian, an artist, an atheist, a Democrat, a Republican, a Muslim, a Russian, an anarchist, a loyalist, a scholar, a rebel, a doctor, an actor, a goth, a homosexual, blah, blah, and blah…
Those are things that you can also say for about a hundred million other people. It does not define you as a separate being. They’re merely labels. And the truth about labels is that they are used not with individuals but to categorize people.
Or divide. Maybe both.
Now one may argue that he can be a Christian and a Goth, while another could only be the former and not the latter. So that defines him from another person, eh? Having a label that the other person does not share. But that is all too generalized. Can that person say with conviction that he is the only Goth Christian in the planet? Not.
And so the question remains, what makes a person an individual? How do you answer the question ‘Who am I’?
The easiest and the laziest way to answer would be to say that you are a nobody, which is an utter lie in itself because a person is always a somebody to someone else, even if it’s not for everybody. Even a tramp that society labels as a nobody is a somebody to someone else – a long-lost friend, a mother, a son, a lover.
Specifics. Yes! At last, you say to yourself, I have already found the right way on how to answer that question. I’m going to flood them all with specifics about myself.
I am Juan Miguel Madrid y Saavedra, 21 years old, 5’8” tall, 158 lb, a junior mechanic. My parents are Ricardo and Cecilia Madrid and my two older sisters are Anastacia and Isabella Madrid. I have lived all my life in Havana and I don’t plan of moving anywhere else. I am in love with a girl working in a paladar near the shop where I work and I plan to marry and have 2 children with her. I am and will be a mechanic for the rest of my life because that is all that I ever know how to do. I was born on the shores of this land and this is where I intend to be buried. So there, now you know me and you cannot say that there is another person on this planet who can say the same words as I have. Now you know who I am.
True, there may not be another Juan Miguel Madrid y Saavedra the Mechanic in the planet, but is that all there is to it with that person? Is that all he is? A resident of Havana who plans to have a family and be a mechanic for the rest of his life and after which reside six feet under his birth soil – is that all?
Why do we have to complicate everything? Why do we have to force him to say more about himself if that is his own understanding ?
“I must find a truth that is true for me . . . the idea for which I can live or die” as Søren Kierkegaard, the first writer to ever call himself existential (Wiki says!), has stated. Yes, it may pertain to a discussion about morality but it also rings true to a question of identity. It is never the society’s task to define a person but only the person’s own. The question who am I can only be answered by the individual because it is he who experiences his life. Society may set traditions and norms, but it is up to the individual to follow or head the other way.
For one, an environment in which a person lives in may be brutal and unforgiving, and yet it does not necessarily mean that the people living in such a place would turn out to be the same. One person may turn out to be an adapter – cold, harsh, and eternally suspicious, while the other may be a dissenter – warm, gentle, and trusting.
That is what sets the two apart, their own choices. One chooses to survive in his environment by means of adaptation, he can only survive if he takes in the characteristics that his environment requires. If I live in an environment where everyone is hostile to one another and is constantly judgmental and only seeks personal gratification and individual advancement, then I cannot allow to be swallowed whole by the situation. I have to be cold so their hostility could not affect me, nor could their judgments. I would not care less. And in a milieu where everyone seeks to trample and rise above the other, I should be suspicious to anyone’s actions. That is the only way to survive.
The other however disagrees with conforming and chooses to do the opposite – he dissents. If I am surrounded with people who treat everyone as an opponent, as a threat, then I have to be warm and live without competing with them. If I do that, then eventually they would see how I am not a threat. And eventually, if all goes for the best, then they would stop treating everyone as a threat. Yes, it may not always be true with everyone but you can’t help but influence one or two or more people because of how you treat and interact with them. I chose to be different because I want change. And I can’t just wait for it to happen. If no one would, then I will start with myself. And it will show to the people I meet. Maybe they will follow and maybe they will not. But I can’t just stand and live in a world that repulses me. If I want it to change then I have to do something. That is the only way I can truly say I have lived.
Both have made a choice, though similar they are not. But it is clear they have decided on a certain course of action for which they can live with, and it will reflect on the kind of person each would turn out to be.
So would it be safe to say that what shapes a person is his own choices? Perhaps.
But like everything else, it is subject to the big C. CHANGE.
So back to the question: “Who am I?”.
Personally, I am yet to discover that. But the good thing is I know where to look for the answers. And even with that knowledge I still can’t find the ultimate answer in the present because the place where I look for is constantly changing, trivial or otherwise – myself.
And even then, one must be open to the possibility that he may never achieve a satisfactory answer to that question for as long as he may live. But tell me, do we really have to know? Or do we just have to accept the idea that there are things that exist which are beyond one’s understanding and the best way to deal with it is to just live and savor the experience while it is still there? If meaning is what we sought after, then searching might be futile if we only limit ourselves to that which is tangible, to that which tries to explain, to human reasoning. Shouldn’t we then accept the idea that there are things our human minds will never understand, that are reserved only for the understanding of a higher sort?
Ah, Life. I can’t help but agree with the character Alyosha when he says, “We must love life more than the meaning of it”. Why can’t we just live without questioning everything? Or rather, live and question, but never despair if you won’t find the answer? Do we question the meaning of our lover’s existence or do we just continue on loving them?
I believe we may find the greatest experience of bliss in the latter.
Questions, questions…sometimes these things are enlightening. But it is faith even amongst unanswered questions that really sustains.
So who am I? I am me, but what makes me me I can’t tell you yet. I do know one thing though. I choose to live. And as much as possible, I choose to be happy.
Look at the choices you’ve made, and think about the ones you’re about to make, then maybe you will find the answer as to who you really are. Or maybe not.
But at least you will know what you want.
Image Sources here.
That I am not an intellectual. An intellectual is someone who loves to learn, tries to learn, and actually learns a lot. I got 2 out of 3. I just never seem to learn a LOT – if not any less than I do 15 years ago.
15 years ago I learned…
*To do unto others only what I want others do unto me.
(Now I do, did, probably will still do unto others what I’d offer my savings account, mini library, and promise to make a twitter account for them not to ever do the same to me. And vice versa.)
*To listen when a person speaks in front.
(So when a blabbering buffoon is on your side and trying to get as close without resorting to sticking a pole inside any orifice, um, you are excused, right?)
*To eat only nutritious foods. And only when you’re hungry.
(A lesson I have happily un-learned! Unless you don’t count eating a large chunk of chocolate when you’ve just had dinner against it.)
*To respect the elderly.
(With all due honesty, I have tried to uphold this for as long as I can remember. But there are tempting times Satan prepared himself by hiding in the guise of a septuagenarian lady, making me want to grab her cane and use it to whack Satan out of that innocent body.)
*To say sorry when you hurt someone.
(But after a decade and a half, I have de-evolved from a human into a chicken for I find myself too much of a coward to utter even this two-syllabic word without the aid of dagger looks and a terribly messy situation.)
*To not speak nor go with strangers.
(I blame the one who said “strangers are merely friends you have yet to meet”. I wonder if that person ever had the reward of meeting and having a little chat with Mr. H. Lecter.)
*To mean what you say and say what you mean.
(This time I blame the books written in the style of beautiful, subtle sarcasm. And politics, of course.)
*To never tell lies.
(Ha! Now who would I blame? You? You? Or you?)
Fifteen years is quite enough time to have forgotten all these lessons. I am certain I learned a whole lot more back then. But due to lack of practice/application of these lessons poor memory, I only have these eight to share.
Let me make it clear that I am not saying the older you get, the dumber you’ll become. Fact is that there’s a turning point somewhere in the age line (they say it’s different for everyone…I do wonder who “they” is/are) when Fate itself drives you toward the long lost fountain of wisdom.
But until you reach that point, you have no right to say you are wiser than a 5 year old.
Any lessons to share?
Images courtesy of Google Images
It feels like a huge, dark, dead body is constantly growing inside my chest. It keeps struggling to occupy space meant for gas exchange. This is anger. This is resentment. And once again they’ve decided it’s already time to visit me.
Can you change what you are?
I mean, is it that hard to believe a person is bestowed with more than just his physical traits upon birth? I believe I was born with boiling blood. In my younger years I find it so easy to hate anyone or anything. I could always find a reason for enmity. It took me quite a long time to realize what I hate the most is not any person or any other thing but this trait to hate so easily itself.
Although it is not without valid reason, every time I hate a person, I also have this notion that I am hating myself. Do I hate myself because I allowed them to hurt me? Do I hate myself for feeling? For caring? Do I hate myself because this hate has spread and now it involves and risks hurting people I care about?
Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Hate only brings hurt…resentment. And this, well this breaks you. This even brings the worst sort of crying. It’s the kind that brings tears that never comes out of those eyes.
Then you’d go thinking, “Oh, I would do anything just to make this hate go away!“
But would you, really?
I would. Still, pride is holding me. Like it’s hate’s conjoined twin. Or better yet its puppeteer. And more often than not, he’s the worse to beat between the two. And it keeps you from forgiveness – both asking and giving. I was assaulted, but I fought back. I fought hate with hate. This only brought more hate – the one thing I hate the most. Makes sense? I don’t know. I know it’s hard to find better words.
In the back of my mind, I know I should’ve kept my cool. That was the right thing to do. Thing is, the back of my mind is so much smaller than the dominating center. And at that moment this bullying part shouts “FIGHT BACK!“. I would give all ten fingers and a tongue if it’s a lie when I say I wish I kept my cool.
But like people who get in trouble, emotions got the better of me.
That leads to how awful I am feeling now. But as I dig deeper, as I force myself to face the truth, I heard a thought saying, “If I haven’t fought back, would it spare me this rotten, gnawing sensation?“.
The answer was no.
See, even if I haven’t reacted in the offense, I would still hate myself for not even having enough guts to protect myself. Maybe it’s just in a different angle, but the result would be the same – hating me.
I would give out a front tooth (and I intend to keep it; can’t even imagine what the hell you would do with it…unless you have a weird tooth fetish making me less than glad to find you reading this) if I could find a single THINKING person who has not hated himself once in his entire lifetime. I could not, that enough I know.
Will it be right to say then that all thinking people are broken because of this past/present self-loathing? I believe it is. Yet it would be another thing to say that these broken little things will never, ever be happy. Or whatever you call that sense of being alive, really living, and loving it. I know I call that happiness.
And I will be happy again.
For I am just a broken little thing, but in the name of my slightly broken right front tooth, why, I am far from destroyed.
*image credits here*
I allowed Tommy a little day-off from writing since he’s been so good all this time in relating to us all his memoirs, not without a little coercion with an eye-popping device, yes, but still. So now, as a tribute to all the guys who f—ed me for a night and took off faster than Bella could say ‘Edward, rape me!’, to you I give this ode to a night I will always wish not to remember…
So you think you’re just too clever
to give out
an eensy, weensy, measly salutation?
And I’m not even taking that back
just because I want you.
You are a sadist.
Or merely a prototype of the male sex.
You were just not developed enough.
If you are then
you should have had the decency to answer
the calls of my kind.
Yes, even the psycho ones.
You are just so full of yourself
that once something seems frightening
you scurry off to another dream world.
Not even heeding what may have happened
to the one that’s left behind.
Or should I merely say a heroic hypocrite?
My apologies to the other sex for revealing
the weaker chunk of your kind.
But even this is not enough to point out
how invariably loathsome
this bit of your whole party is.
*For her story, well click here.*
“It’s so much easier to mock everything than to discuss our true feelings.”
I couldn’t have started this better than with the preceding quotation. It was spoken by Ali, a character from Black Gold – a movie that has touched me lately, and led me to this writing.
It led me to yet another staring-at-the-notebook session and from there I have come up with the idea that the people who suffer most in life turn out to be either of two things: 1.)cynical and depressed individuals; mostly with antisocial tendencies, 2.)the most light-hearted, easy – going people in the world. The former one chose the easier path, the latter chose to go against what fortune, or lack of it, wanted him to become.
No, I don’t have any formal education in Psychology, nor will I claim to have gone through hell and its branches in my twenty years of existence. So there’s no watertight reason why you should believe this. Rather, this is a personal need for me to achieve the balance that is so remote these past few days.
It has been my refuge to convince myself that happiness is what you make out of life and not some destination, nor loot we should all seek to find. Like a hidden treasure we should make all the preparations to discover. And so I try, with ease fortunately, to face life with as light a demeanor as I can manage.
But life is a trickster.
Once you’ve found an effective way to adapt, it then changes its strategies and forces you to doubt people, their intentions, and your whole new outlook on life. Do we really cover up issues that need to be faced when we choose to sweeten it all up with a satirical approach? Is it wrong to focus on the positive side of things and ignore the depressing events around you which there really is little you can do about? Is it a futile feat to try to make a new path different from what most clouded souls follow? Would it do a person better if he tries to live as what society dictates to be a productive individual – one that has a stable job in a stable institution who pays stable taxes in these oh-so-stable governments?
I have already met so many cynics, and I admit I couldn’t blame them for how they’d turn out. The insults, abuses, prejudice, and mockery you could get from the world around you is enough to make one a cold – hearted individual. I used to respond to these people with a temper I would do my best not to come up with again today. But if I dig deeper, I know that what I really wanted was to scream until my larynx dries up from an inch of these people’s faces. Yes, I am not so different as to not possess that violent streak that every human being was bestowed with from birth.
But I choose not to use it. As long as I can help it.
And yet again, like YOU, I have limitations and that’s why I have written this piece of melodrama. I made a decision to keep this blog with a mood as light as it can be – not to the extent as a 4-year old can relate to because I don’t have that pure a mind.
But yes, like YOU, I am someone who exists, and yet asks what’s the point of all of this.
Image courtesy of http://www.cherrybam.com/sad-quotes.php
We find ourselves more comfortable when we’re alone but deep inside we yearn for someone out there, just a single stranger to understand.
Do you find yourself in a situation where you just want to avoid all the people you know and have an honest talk with just about anything you could ever think of with a total stranger? I do. Lots of times.
What’s so enviable about it is that you can talk with someone who doesn’t have previous knowledge about you that he can use as tools for prejudice. It so often happens that we can’t help but hope for an outsider’s opinion once in a while. Your future is often predicted by the way you have screwed up in the past that there’s no point at all in saying what you have to say. And it just isn’t right nor is it fair. But it seems that trusting that people could turn out to be much better than how they have been is a lost skill.
It is very tempting to write in all caps now. Really it is.
It’s just so infuriating how some dumb, horny males NOT of the Filipino race could stereotype all Filipinas as cheap, horny women who constantly look for dying, foreign, and rich male to juice up for all their dollars.
I MEAN, COME ON REVOLTINGLY SMELLY AND UN – LAYable HORNY MEN!!! Do I even have to explain myself here?!
Image Courtesy of Google