The class was supposed to be at 10 am but I arrived at 10:16 am. When I opened the door no one even bothered to glance or look back at me, as usual. I was soaking wet that day, that fucking rain. My jacket was dripping and my hair was all messy so the first thing I did was to put my bag down on my desk and went to the restroom. Funny, it was called as ‘restroom’ when the only thing you can do there is just shit or pee or look at your pathetic self at the mirror and see the pure ugliness that is all in there.
why am i not like the others?
why do i look like this?
why don’t they talk to me?
So many questions even though I already knew the answer to all of it: it’s because this is who I am, and to the losers who told people to be themselves because that’s what matters, that’s a load of bull. That only applies for the cool kids—who never bothered to look at the mirror for hours worrying that they won’t look okay—who has a natural charm who just simply can strike a conversation with anybody. Yeah, be yourself if you’re cool; if you’re like me, it’s best if you pretend to be somebody else or just simply not exist.
So after I dried myself up—thanks to the Jurassic hand blow dryer in there—I went back to the room and pretended like nothing happened. I actually don’t have to try hard because no one seems to care, or notice. As soon as the class started, I began to feel a li’l dizzy and felt like my vision was spinning. I dozed off.
I made up my mind. I’m gonna do this.
While he was in the middle of discussing the different forms of verbs—simple, perfect, progressive and perfect progressive—which to be honest I didn’t give a horseshit, I grabbed the gun from my knapsack. It was still wet from the rain.
They were all busy, not listening to Mr. Harding but minding their own businesses. That’s when I did it. I put the gun inside my mouth and fired it.
They all looked back, looking all horrified. I don’t know if it was because of the sound, or the fact that my brains were scattered all over the wall or that because they haven’t noticed me until that time.
Well at least now they noticed, finally.
You’ve written everything to me like I was some sort of your diary and just like everyone else and their diaries—you didn’t have the courage to keep me.
hide in the
and never ever
—How to be invisible, R
It’s amazing how you poison people with your words or how you stain them with your lies or enchant them with your act. You, my friend, are an incredible work of art. You tell people how damaged you have been or how afraid you are of giving too much fearing that you might lose too much too. Well, let me tell you one thing about losing. In this world we live in, you will always lose—whether it’s little or too much. It’s what’s left that is important.
But I guess, you don’t care about what’s left. What you care for are the things you lose, about the things you’ll never get again. And those are the endless things you tell people for them to feel sorry for you. Quit telling them your sad stories to pull them in only just to push them away in the end. I really don’t get that logic. You put them at a safe distance first, and just when they’re ready to come close you run away from them. I get it. You have a big issue with trust, but you’ll never find someone worth keeping if you’re not going to try.
Make up your mind, too. You’re just as fickle as the weather. Make a decision. You just can’t always say Que Sera, Sera because sometimes, it’s not. You design your own path. If you want to stay, stay. If you want to leave, then go.
If you’re still not ready on looking for the things you’ve lost, at least take care of what’s left because if you don’t, then I don’t know what will be left of you in the end.
—Things I’ve been telling myself all this time, 71414
July 12, 2014
I hope you know that I already gave up on you. I accepted the fact that I can never ever please you. Just so you know, I’m not mad at you. I’m not mad that you weren’t there for me even for once. Do you remember the times I went up to the stage back in high school to get my award? Yes, mom wasn’t there, too. My classmate’s grandma went up to gave the medal to me— for four times. I’m not mad that you always put sis first, or that I felt that she’s your only child. I asked mom if I was adopted, she said I wasn’t. That’s good to know, at least.
I hope you know that I tried my best. I studied hard. I stayed in school. I didn’t do any drugs. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t drink. I didn’t play with people’s feelings. I never forget your birthday despite the fact that you never thanked me whenever I greet you or even acknowledge it. I always gave time to talk to you, but every time I do, I feel like I’m just talking to a stranger. Do you know that feeling when you can’t even say I love you to your own father? It’s painful. Remember the time when I finally told you I love you? You answered okay.
I’m not mad at you. I’m sad, maybe. Sad that unlike others, I have a father, but it felt like that I really didn’t have any. Maybe that’s why I always seek for a father figure. I’ve always wanted a guidance from a dad. Someone who will teach me to play basketball or someone who will do ‘the talk’ with me or someone that could be there when I need advice. I never had any of those growing up. Maybe that’s why I’m such a wimp.
I watched something yesterday, dad, and someone from that show said that ninety percent of being a dad… is just showing up. I just hoped you did.
I’m still okay without you. Thanks, still.
It was eating him inside.
That’s what he remembered. He was a fucking mess—literally and figuratively—back then, going gaga over a girl. Hair all messed up like he was fucking electrecuted; eyes all baggy and heavy from staying up late until 3am just staring at her photos inside his room on her facebook page; face full of acne and a smell like he lives in Satan’s armpit. He was appaling that even his mom got tired of telling him what to do.
But he didn’t know that then. All he knew was Jessica Lange was the girl who’s going to bear their two sons, Vincent and Kevin, who will grow up to be the best lawyers in town. Jessica Lange was not really everyone’s dream girl. She wasn’t popular like Megan Lime or the cheering squad captain, Lila Holmes. She wasn’t the smartest in school either. She was no Rachel Young who’s body is to die for. She was just a simple girl with an auburn hair and eyes that are brown that can drown you when you look at it. Her lips looked so soft she might as well hold a sign that says, “Come and kiss me.”
Jessica’s beauty was subtle; simple. If you look around the room, she’s not the first one you’ll notice and yet, there’s something about her that he really, really liked. He just didn’t know it yet.
He remembered asking her to dance at prom. It was majestic. He could not forget how beautiful Jessica was in her white, silk dress or how deep her eyes was that he’s continuously falling looking at it or how beautiful she was when she smiled. It was fucking majestic, until he heard her talking about him with the other guys.
"He looks like a fucking psychopath and he smells funny."
He remembered that. It was eating him inside.
That’s why when she went to the ladies room, he knew it was his chance. He followed her there and when he got the chance he quickly grabbed her head by surprise and bashed it to the hard ceramic toilet bowl. He bashed her subtle beauty to the toilet 25 times. Why no one came while he was doing it, he’d no idea.
Her white dress, now spoiled with her blood still looked beautiful. Her eyes, opened and still as deep as they were before, looked lifelessly at nothing.
He stared at her.
That look used to be him. Lifeless. But what happened that night was a wake-up call. He spent his life obsessing, fantasizing, and hoping for one thing— one thing he knew will never happen. He should be thanking Jessica Langes for everything. He smiled and quickly got rid of the body, how he did it, again, no one knows.
"Hey, Artie. Still with me?," a man in his late twenties is snapping his fingers at him.
"Huh?," he replied.
"I said, do you remember Jessica Langes?, she went to your high school, I think you were in the same year."
"Huh. I don’t think I remember." Oh, but he does.
"Her body was actually found. The news said that she has been missing for a couple of years and that the case was closed. Isn’t it weird? Like a crime scene happened in your school?"
"It is. It really is."
“Writers are broken.”
It’s true. Those who write carelessly and express things through beautiful words are emotionally incomplete. Pieces by pieces, they try to look for the missing parts that they need to be fulfilled.
They write stories, they write poems— those are their emotional outbreak. They’re wounded, they bleed metaphors and ironies. They cry adjectives, nouns and verbs. So basically, those things they write.. those are their pains. Those are their rages, their grudges, their feelings— them.
it’s not everyday that you meet people and show them who you really are. sure, you might tell them what your favorite books are or that you like to eat your spaghetti slurping it instead of twirling it around your fork—those kinds of things.
but there are times that you’d have to pretend, like hating some actors because they hate it too or pretending not to like the new spiderman movie or pretending to like sports even though you find it effing boring. it sucks that we have to pretend to be somebody we’re not just for them to like us; for us to feel accepted; for us to feel human.
and then, we meet someone who regarless of how crazy we are, how weird we act or how annoying we can be—they still keep up with it and quite surprisingly, still accept us. some even give us the same level of craziness just for us to feel that we’re no different from them—or maybe, that’s who they really are and they’ve just been waiting for someone to show their real self.
maybe it’s the same with all of us. maybe we all act like we know everything, that we’re mature about everything. maybe we act like we love game of thrones, or suits or orange is the new black, but there’s something deep inside of us that won’t miss if spongebob squarepants or fairly odd parents or hey arnold is on tv. maybe we act like we prefer watching smart movies or those “artsy” stuff where we’d have to interpret the ending but deep inside of us, we still long for pixar or disney films where the ending is just simple— it’s happy.
Today is the second day at work. Let me tell you one thing about it: It felt forever.
There’s no problem with the work, I actually think it’s much easier than my first one. The thing is, it’s far away from where I stay. I used to prepare 30 minutes before the scheduled time and I still arrive at work on time (or sometimes a little bit late). Now, I have to wake up 3 hours every day to make sure that I’ll report on time.
Not only the trip is long, but it’s a lot of hassle too. I’ve never felt stressed going out early in the morning until yesterday. I’d have to take advantage of my height to struggle with the crowd, which looks like an apocalypse from a zombie movie, and ride the bus, which I’d have to stand anyway.
After that, I have to ride a jeep which is still 30-minute away from the office. In the end, I go to work looking like I just wrestled a grizzly bear. Just kidding, I know how bears are dangerous. What I mean is, I go to work looking like I just got from one.
Anyway, enough complaining. The company seems promising. The pay is good and I signed a contract so I think I put myself into this. I just hope I get used to this process.
Sometimes I wonder,
is it me who you
think of when you
see that it starts
Is it me me who you
when you hear your
being played on the
Is it me who you miss
when you’re on a long
boring train ride?
Is it my company you
look for when you’re
alone at some cafe?
Seen ✓ 14:18
Sometimes I wonder
if you still have
my text messages
saved on your phone,
or if you ever read
it and reminisce when
you can’t sleep at night.
Seen ✓ 14:54
Sometimes I wonder
if you wish, too
that we’re still
or thinking what
would have happened
if we never parted.
Seen ✓ 16:30
God, I fucking miss you.
Seen ✓ 16:32
I don’t get people’s obsession about happy endings. I mean if you really love something, perhaps someone, do you want to see its end? Don’t you want to keep it going?
This is why I never finish good books.
"Oh, God. Here she goes again.", he said as let out a deep sigh. He saw her sitting and crying—again—on their favorite seat at a regular fastfood chain somewhere in Ortigas. She was at least discreetly crying, the kind of cry you do when you don’t want to get attention but you just can’t really keep it in so you had to let go.
He scratched his head as he walked to her. He knows things will be awkward from that time forward. He was never good at this situation. He doesn’t like dramas, so he’s not really good at comforting at someone who’s distressed, whoever it is—even someone who’s really special.
"Babe, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be late.", he smiled awkwardly while looking at the people around them, fearing that they might think he did something to her that made her cry. He sat on the chair beside her and pat her on the back. See, a normal guy would have hug his girlfriend if he saw her crying, but not him. He would just pat her just like a dog in need of affection. Heck, he’s sweeter to his dog than to anyone else. He knows that he’s emotionally distant—to humans, at least.
He got no response from her. He knows that this means he has to keep explaining until she believes him. “Sigh. Babe, something came up on my way here. There was an accident at the intersection. There was a lot of commotion, causing a traffic.” Still no response. “You see, I made a way. I walked a few miles just to find a bus to ride again. I promise, I really did.” Still no response.
Sigh. Now he’s clueless. Why do girls like to make things complicated? As if saying sorry and saying that everything you do is not enough? What does she want me to do, kneel here and beg for her forgiveness?
He put his hand together, like in a clapping form and put it in his mouth. He always does this when he’s stressed. Again, he let out a deep sigh and held her hand. “Babe, I’m really sorry. I love you.”, he said. She’s still crying.
Then to his surprise, she took her phone out of her pocket, clicked a few things here and there and stop and just stare at something on the screen. To his curiosity, he stood up and went to her to see what’s she was looking at. Again, to his surprise, he saw her looking at his picture on her phone.
What’s wrong with this woman? Here I am, being ignored despite the fact that I’m apologizing my ass off and she’s looking at my picture?
He then overheard a conversation from the next table.
"Dude. It’s 2014. You’re too old fashioned. Just ask her out. Stop being a pussy."
"Yeah, but I don’t know how—"
"Oh, just message her on her facebook, you wimp."
Lines were formed on his forehead.
Huh? What the hell is going on? What the hell are you talking about? Isn’t it 2012?
But then, he remember something.
It all makes sense now.
The accident that happened earlier, actually happened last June 13, 2012. A bus swerve its way on the bus he was on, ‘causing a lot of death—including his.
It has been 2 years, and every time at this year she still goes to their favorite seat and just reminisce everything. So that’s why she’s crying, not because he’s late but because he didn’t and will never show up.
As she wipes away her tears, he heard her saying,”This will be the last time I’d be crying because of you.” As she stood up and walked away from him, he knew she’d start forgetting him. He was only a figment of her memory. All this time, he was only a memory.
Slowly, he faded away.