This book will not make it anywhere. I suppose.

If one of us was brave enough, we’d have closed the book and burned it years ago.

But we aren’t. We continue filling the book with pages and chapters and beautiful photographs of us, of postcards of places we’ve been to and will never be, of lyrical musings and deep, sometimes dark – melodies. Of blank pages that speak volumes, of blanks that show all the tension, of blanks that reveal more than the colorful mumbo-jumbo inside.

Damned is what we are.


I’m not sure if…

I’m not sure if I should show you what I found
Has it gone for good, or is it coming back around?
Isn’t it hard to make up your mind,
When you’re losing and your fuse is fireside…

– Fireside, Arctic Monkeys

On Reading, Review, and Book Clubs


I’ve been introduced to reading at a young age, but not because of another person’s influence, but because of curiosity, or say, inclination. Plus, there wasn’t any shortage on reading materials. My mom used to read a lot of newspapers and magazines (Women’s Today magazine’s Tales from the Unknown, anyone?) back then, my Dad not much (except the Bible, I think?). They bought us four sets of encyclopedia, and my sister and I hungrily used them. To look at pictures, initially, but when I learned to read, well of course, to read, too. Those Maggi recipes? Del Monte Kitchenomics pamphlets? Soap boxes, shampoo bottles, candy wrappers, chips labels, everything – I read everything. The defining moment, I think, was when my sister brought home books from our school library. They gave away very old books in favor of the new ones to be displayed at the modest shelves in our school library. Those books were mostly from the 30s-50s, where the pages broke when folded, and powdered when rubbed. Very old, but those were the first books I ever read in their entirety – about the Aztecs and American Indians. There were also a couple of Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books which I was very fond of. My father’s sister brought my sister a complete Mother Goose nursery rhymes collection which we truly loved (Goosey-goosey gander…), but unfortunately lost it, rather, got it stolen. My Speech teacher borrowed and never returned it. Then my cousin had a collection of Grimm’s fairytale, that one I borrowed and never returned. Also, my mother brought us one of those story books with cassette tapes narration and I extremely adored that set. Unfortunately I cannot remember what happened to it, but let me just say there was no money wasted – the tape was too used, the books too worn out. Moreover, my father’s sister brought home from abroad a lot of books and stowed them all in our cabinet upstairs. They were for grown-ups, because hello, Cardinal Sins by Andrew Greeley, The Haj by Leon Uris and The Great Train Robbery by Michael Crichton, and a lot of other books I don’t remember anymore but read. The first Cosmo Mag I read has Claudia Schiffer on the cover, wearing a skintight white dress with plunging neckline. My library card was always completely stamped during my elementary and HS years, which gave me no  problem with the library clearance (we were required to check out books all-year round and promptly return them and complete the boxes in the library card or else you don’t get the librarian’s sought-after signature at the end of every school year!) I remember Time Magazines feature on East Timor when I was in 5th grade. And it just continued on. To this day. I read everything from philosophy, crime (a lot, always), horror, thriller, theories, history, contemporary, young adult, fantasy, poetry etc, etc… but not self-help books because no thank you. If I want help I turn to fiction. I know, weird, but fiction gives it to you dead on without the pretentious air of someone who knows how to do what, you know what I mean? Or better yet, ask from people who’s been there and done that. Anyway…


I must have read hundreds of books but never reviewed them. Okay so maybe a couple of lousy ones, but not the real blow-by-blow review. I could never do it. It would always be subjective (all reviews are, anyway – no matter how you try to be objective) and would give the reader no useful explanation whatsoever. It would be totally a waste of time. If somebody asks, did you like this and that, I’ll say yes, and when asked why, I’ll say because this and that. Likewise when asked about something I don’t like. It’s just the way it is. I don’t even interpret the beauty of the prose, the measure of this and that, the climax, the use of language… I read and enjoy. That’s basically it. Do I learn something? Of course. I don’t like breaking apart a book to review it. Somehow with a book it’s different. I enjoy reading other people’s reviews, however. I just don’t like doing it, too lazy or unimaginative perhaps. I read to experience, to live, to learn, to break out, to escape… It’s a part of me. But no reviews.


Oh yeah. I have joined one, The Filipino Group in Goodreads, and I must say, they are really nice, and very well-read people who continually explore all sort of genre in literature. Most of them I believe are friends in real life, and what great friends they might be! I joined in 2012, joined a couple of buddy reads, participated in a few discussions, attended a ReaderCon with them, met a few (KD, Angus, Tina, Ranee…) and… now I haven’t been back in a long time. It’s not them, it’s me. I don’t know why. It’s a productive and friendly club, certainly welcoming, but maybe book clubs are just not right for me. Or maybe it’s a mature reader thing and I don’t have that sort of maturity to dive into book clubs yet. Or maybe its selfishness and the desire to not want to share my reading experience, or maybe I’m a sheltered reader, or… there are a lot of reasons, but can’t pinpoint exactly what. But many thanks to Goodreads -TFG for the warm welcome. 🙂 If you guys are looking for a wonderful and diverse book club, just go and be a member of The Filipino Group.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, (after three long paragraphs) is that reading has no requirements. If you love it, great! And if you don’t, then I’m judging you. Kidding. Not. Sorry, really, I’m kidding.


Book bites:

Everything in the world exists in order to end up as a book.” – StĂ©phane MallarmĂ©

Nostalgia Intensity

We know that nostalgia is that sentimental longing for the past, most especially for a time, event or a place with happy associations.

Nostalgia Intensity, because more often than not, these nostalgic intervals crash over us with frightening intensity, it demands to be felt. It is true that memories are there to keep us warm, to remind us that there are happy things and people in life that make this journey worth taking, but these memories also evoke a certain shade of sadness within us. Admit it, once or twice you found yourself reliving a part of the past with tenderness and melancholy, knowing that it will never happen again, not with the same person, in the same place, or in the same event. The intensity of the knowledge that all is lost gives us pain, a heartache of sorts. It is like coming home to nothing but ghosts.

And the intensity of the nostalgia can only be found inside our hearts, reflected in our eyes and little smiles.

The first rung on the ladder

I put my right foot up the first rung of the ladder, held on to the sides and stepped on the second rung. Then I froze in that awkward mid-step stride. I couldn’t go up, couldn’t go on.

What if one of the rungs gave up? What if the last one does? And I fall, straight, 6 feet under ground.

What of it, then?

So I stepped down and pushed the ladder back.

No more.

Faces, places, wastes.

“The worst part of losing a friend, is knowing that it’s not the end. There’s always one more time you meet, in a crowded shop or a darkened street. You quickly catch each other’s eyes, you drop your head and on walk on by, and you know in that moment or two, you might have lost someone who really loves. You might have lost someone who really loves you. Have you ever lost someone who really, really loves you?”

She remembered that line from one of her favourite songs, The Face, when she saw three men she used to be fond of.

She was at a friend’s party, a paper cup in hand, when she saw them arrive. These men were all very close, two of them are brothers and the other one their closest cousin. They all differ in age, A is the eldest, already 30. B is 24 and C is 22. A is still single, it is much of a choice as it is much of him being a mama’s boy. They used to be really close because he looked after her, she being 5 years his junior. He used to do things for her, he regularly called, but all it ever was, was a platonic relationship. She wasn’t naive – she knew he liked her, but she didn’t bother to press on or even try to see where it was going. Besides, it wasn’t A she liked – it was B. He was just the right type of bad boy she liked – intense but exceedingly gentle with her, honest, open and direct. Up until now she was not sure if he had liked her back. There were signs, oh yes, but signs were all there were. The moment of imminent seduction was between them but nobody made a move. And then there was C. Handsome, silent, and dedicated C. He confessed to her when they were very young, and owing it to she being older than him a few years, she declined. They went on a couple of dates still, however, because C was persistent in his own eccentric ways. He never tried to take advantage of her, never tried anything funny with her. He always looked after her – figuratively and literally. Whenever they were together, she always caught him looking at her when he thought she wasn’t aware of him doing it. He was silent, brooding, and was often jealous with his brother for being so openly communicative with her. And that most probably, she thought now while sipping her beer, was the reason she was so fond of B.

She hasn’t seen any one of them in years. A was the first to approach, always sure of himself and his good looks. He greeted her fondly, they exchanged pleasantries, and sat down. B was always the effortlessly cool guy. He eased in on their table with a small smile, asking how she was, commenting on a few things. C was as silent and brooding as ever. He was like the calm before a storm. She was most curious about him. She shot him a tentative, half-shy look which he returned pointedly – then she broke the gaze. There was no familiarity, no fondness, and definitely no emotion in his eyes when he looked at her. It was just recognition. He didn’t speak to her for the rest of the evening.

A and B then were her constant companions for the night. They talked a lot about trivial things, about B‘s wife and kid, about A‘s fiancĂ©e, and about her fiancĂ©. They talked about the old times, A teasing her about B secretly. A never mentioned C. They all know that C is not interested any more, and he never will be, for he found somebody he was crazy for. They all knew he was the only one who feels that way; and that his girlfriend was just quite happy to put him on leash. She felt bad for him; she knew he was capable of the deepest devotion, and she was sure as hell he didn’t deserve that treatment from the girl.

B was talkative all night, he sat beside her all the time, he kept trying to make physical, verbal and non-verbal contact with her. His gaze was as intense as she remembered it, and his attention brought her instant pleasure. If there was anything she loved, it was the outright attention and appreciation of a man for her. She is vain but strong, lost but determined. That night she felt she wanted everything. She wanted them all at her feet, looking up at her like a goddess they worship.

Finally, she felt suffocated from all her silly thoughts and conflicting emotions. She excused herself and went to the garden to get some fresh air.

From where she was standing, she looked back at the table where the three stooges were. B was looking at her, C gave her a fleeting look, and A, well, A was being silly. She wondered how different all of them would be had she committed to either one of them. She wondered how different she would be, depending on who she chose. She thought how cruel she would have been to have chosen one and paraded her affection unashamedly. She thought perhaps it was just nostalgia. She thought it was probably nostalgia and beer. She thought it might be the “what ifs”. She thought it was the full moon, the cold breeze, the bright lights. She was a romantic like that, and helpless.

Her fiancé joined her a couple of minutes after.
She looked at him, and she wondered what emotions flickered through her eyes and her face as she looked at him. She loved him deeply, that she was sure of. But changes, no matter how small, affects everything eventually. All her choices, her thoughts, and her feelings vary, they change everyday. Sometimes she is unsure of everything and often times dead set on the belief that everything is all right. Could she really not want anything now, except this moment between them? To other people who might see them gazing at each other’s eyes, they would perhaps think they were speaking to each other with their souls, and they would never have thought of all the stupid thoughts she was thinking of. She searched his face for the reason why she wanted to marry him, and she found familiarity, a tingle of cruelty on his strong face, the subtle sensuality in his mouth, the depth of his eyes, and his vulgar nose. She wondered at that moment why she loves him, why he loves her.

Whether he understood what was going through her mind or not, it didn’t show on his face. He smiled at her.

Her heart skipped but she did not smile back.

She heard footsteps on the graveled path. She looked away from him and looked at the intruders. They were A, B and C. They were about to leave the party. A gave him an arrogant, knowing smile. B just stared at her. And C, he gave her a flicker of a glance and looked away.

She wondered if anyone of them would have loved her so much, if anyone of them would have been tender with her. She wondered if she should have tried and make it work with them, one at a time. What a slut I would have been, she wondered.

She realised she did not have to do all this thinking anymore. Her heart wasn’t theirs. It wouldn’t have worked. She was vain, arrogant, and insecure, but she knew to whom she belongs. She knew the someone who accepts her for who she is, no matter how much of a cliche is that.

She looked back at her fiancé, and for the first time that night, she smiled.

I Dreamed A Dream

“…I dreamed a dream in time gone by…”

Dear Readers, if you have been following my blog for a while, you might have read some of my blog posts about my crazy dreams. Well! I just had one last night (or maybe early morning, I’m not certain) and in it are my super model crush, a friend of his, and yours truly.

This is the second time MT has invaded (hm?) my dreams. Let’s say the first one was intense in all sense of the word, (with Naomi Campbell and Tyrese in there!) but this second one is like… a rom-com. It’s so weird but I woke up feeling like I was in cloud nine.

Okay, the dream…

The dream was coloured. But the colours are sort of treated in “lomo” and so there are all sorts of hues of blues, and greens, and yellows… and there we were, the three of us, standing at the edge of a place that looks like a wharf, the breeze gently caressing us while looking over boats coming and going, with people going about their own businesses. I can see MT’s glorious curls dancing with the wind, his profile so gorgeous it took my breath away. At that moment he looked so carefree and happy – almost childlike in its innocence. (I vividly remember that part.)

MT’s friend, who we will call FL, is a friend of mine – he introduced me to MT. It was a trip somewhere, and he tagged along MT. We were just standing there, enjoying a quiet time when FL suddenly invited me over to New York to visit them. He added that I should stay with them. In the dream, my mind was already racing through my schedule and then suddenly I announced that I will be able to go on the last week of July or first week of August, because I have an impending trip to the UK for two weeks. Glad that I said yes, they both smiled encouragingly at me. Need I say that the urgency to say yes was because of the attraction I apparently have for MT?

And then I could not remember the other parts of the dream other than a lot of adventure to places that never looked like New York. Try Australia. And then it was a daze – a happy, warm, wonderful kind. There was this scene wherein we were both at a vast field in a sunny day and cool breeze and we were like two kids above a huge woven ball made of rattan and we roll it by running above it and we were just so happy. I fell of mine (imagine the kind of fall in Disney movies, the cute kind) we both laughed and he sort of jumped off the ball and I did too – we flipped backwards and landed on our feet. And like a Disney movie, we were face to face just smiling and holding hands.

“…But there are dreams that cannot be…”

I don’t remember much after that other than a magical montage of our happy faces. It’s so weird. When I woke up, I was smiling – saw my face on the mirror opposite me.

It was wonderful. There was no sad feeling when I realised it was a dream – just that for a couple of minutes, while I was asleep (half-dead state), I was in heaven. That dream just made my day. I could still feel him, still see his wonderful smiling face and those damn eyes that makes you forget your name…

(Okay, this sounds totally psychotic and maybe it is, but the point is it was a dream. And all dreams are stories. And stories have to be told. I want to write this for me, for my sake, not for anybody else. If somebody finds this okay, good – if somebody finds this totally tasteless and nonsense, I don’t give a flying fuck.)

Gravitational Pull

A drive in the city, he said. But I look like shit today, I said. When did you look like shit? he asked. Never, he supplied. So come on, go with me, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. I hesitated. Who in the world would he introduce me to? In the long years of our friendship, he introduced me to exactly five people – his grandparents, two of his best friends, and one of his ex-girlfriends. Who now, I asked myself. Who, I asked. It’s a surprise, he said, and I can’t help but notice the tension and hesitation in his voice. What’s the matter, I asked, Nothing, he said. Fine, but if you’re planning something, you’ll be in hot water. Yeah, sure, was his lame reply.

I looked at myself in the mirror. There’s just something about meeting with him that rattles me – do I look chic enough, pretty enough, is my make-up off? Do I smell nice, does my handbag match my dress and shoes? And when I finally deem myself presentable (I actually always aim for irresistible because it drives him nuts) I remind myself this isn’t a date date, but instead a friendly catch-up. Yeah right, bitch, I smile to myself.

Finally, I heard the doorbell. He’s always on time, this one. I opened the door and there he was – in his usual white shirt, jeans and comfortable sneakers. He is very extraordinary-looking, but his eyes are exceptional – light brown, and their expression could change from warm and tender to steady and intense in a whiff of a perfume, a laugh, or a twinkling of the eyes. They seem to try and penetrate every fiber of your being, and you find yourself struggling between stopping it or letting his eyes do just that.

“Hey, stranger.” he said.

I smiled. Those two words sent my heart a flutter. Nonsensical, but there you are.

“Hey.” I said.

“Ready?” he asked smoothly.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll just grab my purse.”

Just before I turned around, he caught me and embraced me tightly. I don’t understand just what happened, but there was a weight to his embrace, as if he wanted to tell me things, and each unsaid thought gave way to a weight, that after he let me go, his eyes were watery and my heart sank into the pit of my stomach. He did not say anything, his eyes were sad all of a sudden, and I felt a desperation inside of me. Suddenly, I wanted to just stay here inside the comfortable coral walls of my apartment. I sighed, turned around and walked to the living area to grab my purse. I waited for sounds of his footsteps to echo behind me, or perhaps the sound of him getting a glass of water, or the sound of the fridge opening, anything – just anything to  prove that he is walking, running after me. Nothing. All I hear are the dull echoes of my heels on the tiled floor. This also, was a first. I struggled with my emotions as I picked up the purse, and thought, what the hell, then walked to the doorway where he remained fixed, like a hundred year old tree rooted firmly to the ground.

Now the silence enveloped us. We walked to his car, he opened the door for me as usual, a gesture which kept my hopes up, and he waited for me to step inside before closing it too. I don’t understand what came over me, but I ran my hands on the cool leather seat of the car, to the smooth exterior of it, on the dashboard, everywhere I could lay my hands on.

“What are you doing?” he asked, perplexed.

“Looking for echoes.” even I was surprised at that response.

His expression turned somber at once.

How many times have we ridden in this car? How many laughs and lengthy conversations have we had inside this car? How many confessions have we told inside this car, how many secrets have we let go, how many memories, how many hours, how many tiny little things have we shared inside this car that amounted to years of trust, fondness and… love?

I have not told him I loved him. For the life of me, I do not know why. It is definitely one thing I could not confess, but had wanted to for a long time, here, inside his car. His car that served as the only witness to our friendship, the little, cutesy bouts of romance halted by our own loyalties and commitments, his car that served as a secure little world of ours, in its own limited way. I noticed my hands tightly knotted together on my lap, I loosened them in a haste and put them to the side. I waited for that prickly sensation of anticipation when he’d hold and smooth out the lines of my hands. It seemed forever, and it did not come. I panicked and held back tears of anxiety. Why? He used to reach for me, for my hands every time we drive around the city. He never let my left hand go, he lets it rest on the stick shift for a while and put his hand on top of mine, and then drive. When we are on a traffic jam or we were caught a red light, he’d smooth my hand over, as if memorizing the skin and bone geography of it, occasionally he would rest on a finger, concentrate on it, as if erasing something, or looking for echoes, as if it would lead him to a truth, or an unanswered prayer. But now, there is nothing. I looked over at him, and his face was set, eyes on the road, knuckles white on the steering wheel and stick shift.

I fought the sobs back, and it felt as if talons are scratching on my heart, the pain, oh God, the pain is intolerable! He gave me a fleeting look, braved a smile, and returned his focus on the road. I decided to sing to divert my attention, for I don’t know what else to do to prevent the tears from falling.

I broke into Jason Mraz’s You and I Both. Yeah, I know, comic, like a fucked-up Glee scene but I needed to hear something, anything, even my own voice – to not hear the words being spoken in the silence. I do not want to hear what the silence is saying, so I risked the incredulity of the singing.

When I finished the song, I heard a sniff, but didn’t look his way. Then the silence was broken by the sound of his phone vibrating. I took a quick peek at the display, and everything was revealed to me. Of course, the time has come. This is it. He glanced nervously at me, but did not pick it up.

“Are you going to take that or what?” I finally said.

“Yeah…” he said lugubriously before picking it up.

“Yeah we’re almost there…” he said on the other line. He sounded dead, unhappy, or was it just me making things up? Like I have made things up in my mind a thousand times about him, about us, about everything.

He put the phone back on the dashboard. The silence became stale, and I looked outside the window. This may be my last city ride with him ever. Suddenly, the vastness of the universe dizzied me up; I am but a speck, and now, this speck is going to be wiped away from somebody’s life.

He slowed down in front of an elegant-looking bistro, that’s when I noticed we must be in the heart of the city – where all hip, chic and cool little bistros like this exist. How apt and awful, I thought. How cosy and how sickening. He got out of the car immediately and opened the door on my side, but I remained seated. He called my name, and it sounded anguished, guttural to me.

“How very mean of you to rob me of notice,” I said to him. He didn’t reply. I stepped out of the car and he led the way.

And there she was – her long, jet black hair glowing under the yellow lights. Of course. She, who dropped him in my heart’s doorstep years ago, she, who is now back and decided she wants him back. Oh, they could rot together in hell, I thought.

As if sensing our arrival, she looked behind her and practically beamed when she laid her eyes upon him. He waved back heartily, smiled, and touched my elbow to steer me to that direction. I snatched it back and did not say a thing.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said sweetly. I said nothing, but I managed to at least smile at her.

“Oh and that smile, that famous smile.” she crooned. “Do sit down.” She motioned. I looked at her face, and was once again torn by the unusual beauty it possessed.

He sat beside me, which was a surprise, but it didn’t seem to surprise her. And then, for a brief second, his hand found mine under the table, he gripped it tight, and I gripped it back with panic, and then he let go. And then, no more.

“I’ll leave you two.”

Before I could say anything, he moved away from the table, and left the two of us there.

“How are you?” she asked timidly.

“Fine, just fine. But let’s skip the formality, and just tell me flat out what you want.”

“You really are a hard woman to place. He’s right.” she said. This one does not deserve a response, too.

She addressed me in my name.

“You remember, years ago, when I asked you to take care of him? I know you did, and I’d like to thank you. You’ve been a very good friend to him…”

I drowned out whatever nonsense she’s spouting. She has the nerve to talk to me like this!

“I’d like to take him back.” Those words brought me back to earth.

“Come again?” I asked.

“I said, I’d like to take him back.”

She repeated it! She did! I laughed hysterically at her words. Take him back?! She gave him away and now she decided to take him in again.

“I never took him. You asked me to look after him, and I looked after him not because you asked me to. I’ve been doing it pre-you, during-you, and post-you. I did it because I care for him. Now, you say you’re taking him back? Take him. He was never mine in the first place.”

She looked intensely at me, gauging my words, thinking about underlying meanings, feeling the hurt, the weight and the pain of the words.

“I forgot he tells you almost everything.”

“Yeah. Obviously, the same can be said of you.”

This time, she laughed.

“He loved you, you know.”

“Don’t say that, and don’t let me hear you say that again. Don’t put words where they do not belong.”

“Don’t fool yourself,” she said coolly. “You know it, he knows it, I know it. This little mĂ©nage trois has been going on for years and it could not continue.”

“We are just friends.” I said lamely. She laughed again.

“Friends? Don’t make me laugh. Perhaps, you both hid in that travesty. Friendship.” She snorted.

“Fine, you are the honest one. I don’t feel like owing you any truths,” I said, “now that you come in telling me you want him back. I suppose he does not have a choice.”

“Oh he has, or rather, he did. And he chose me in the end. I told you, he loves you, but you know it as well as I do – there can only be one. He loves me best.”

“So what’s with all this grandstanding?” I asked hotly.

“A finality. A cutting of ties. You of all people should understand this.”

“I do. I just don’t understand why you didn’t let him tell me.”

“It’s better this way, trust me.”

“I don’t.”

She laughed.

“Oh dear,” she said, “are you not glad this is going to be over with? How many nights were you tortured by this? How many curses did you throw to the wind? How many times did you beat up your heart for feeling it for him? And may I ask, why did you not tell him you love him before I did? Oh yes, I remember – you can’t.” She dropped those truths on me hotly, unmindful of the wounds, the blood, the guts.

“I am both doing you a favour. I take back what’s mine, and you can say goodbye to your confused friendship. I am sure the memories are enough to keep you both grounded for a lifetime.” She said casually.

She spoke of nothing but the truth, of course. What we didn’t have the guts to do, she did. Maybe we went on with this plan because to say goodbye straight to each other would be next to impossible. Maybe we went on with this plan because in the end we’re both cowards, hiding in the shadows of each others’ hearts. Maybe we went on with this plan because we have come to the point of no return, and all we can do is move forward.

“I like you a lot,” she told me softly, “so let this go. Let him go.” she said with finality.

“Is this the only way this could end?” I asked.

“Yes. I know him too well, and you, based on his stories. I do love him, you hear? I will take care of him. And I will not give him a chance to think about you, or miss you – as a friend, or as something else entirely.”

“Maggots breed,” I said, “in dead stuff.”

“But as the circle of life goes on, maggots become another thing and they die. And that is the time I have set my heart on. The maggots will die, It will end, when you think it would not.”

“You’re right.” I conceded.

Why should I fight for him when he clearly wants this too?

“You know, you’re all right.” She said.

“Don’t fool yourself that we will ever be bosom buddies.” I said. She smiled.

“I think we already are – indirectly, since the day I dropped that bomb on you.” I smiled grudgingly.

“Let’s keep it at that, as you are so awfully adept at dropping them.” She laughed.

“Thank you.” She said sincerely.

The tears fell at last.

“You tell him goodbye for me.” I said after a while. She nodded, and I stood up and left.

Outside, he was leaning over his car, looking up at the night sky. My breath got caught in my throat, and I choked back the tears. I looked up, and noticed that the moon is hovering so low it seems as if you could reach out and touch it. It casts an eerie silver glow to everything. The moon, the night, the end of a day. It is awfully low and bright tonight.

“Someone I know, or will soon be ‘used to know‘, was, or is, obsessed with the moon. She says senseless facts like the moon causes the rise and fall of tides. I didn’t notice it, but she became the moon in my world, and I have risen and fallen with the tides of her presence. Mostly fallen though, and now, the moon will be gone. I wonder what she’ll say to this? What happens to a planet without a moon?”

I wiped my tears dry and answered.

“She’ll say ‘Fuck you,’ first.” He gave a watery chuckle. “And what happens to a planet without a moon? Well, first, the night sky would be less interesting, there would be no moonlight which would totally suck,” he let out a laugh again. I continued on, “Let’s use the Earth as an example, without the moon, it would revolve faster and the days will be shorter, just around 6 hours. The tidal ebbs and flows would slow dow. Plus, the Moon has a great stabilizing presence, and without it, well, the planet’s tilt would dramatically change over time, granted it will take million of years… oh also, the climate of the Earth is sensitively dependent on the 23.5 degrees tilt of the Earth’s axis, and without the stabilizing presence of the huge Moon, the gravity of the other planets would produce big changes on this angle, like it did with Mars. To summarize, it would be very disastrous.”

He let out a sound impossible to distinguish – was it a laugh or a sob?

“I guess I’d have to live without the Moon…”

“Yeah, starting now.”

He stood up straight  looked at me with sadness, but I braved a watery smile. I turned my back and whispered my goodbye.

And I could have sworn my life on it, I heard the wind carry his goodbye to my ear.


PO Box

So, earlier today, I saw a post on Tumblr by somebody I follow, about a PO Box he recently opened and then he encouraged us to write him letters, and promised that he will read and answer each of them!

It thrilled me. When I was younger, I used to write letters to my usual correspondents – my friends and Kuya Bob (I’ll write a separate post about him). Oh, the feeling of waiting for Mr. Mailman to arrive carrying the responses to my letters! It was such a rush to receive a letter. It feels so personal, so special.

I have been wanting to write and send letters to friends, to people, anyone! So, this week, I’ll visit some nearby post offices and ask if they rent out PO boxes. I sure hope they do, because I’d like to write people from all over the world and gain new friends from it. 🙂

Once I get a PO Box, (crossing fingers) I’ll post it here and perhaps you can write me. 🙂

Let’s get back to writing letters!