[Sorian's Scrapbook} Personality: Disorder!

[Sorian]

"Job well done Dave."

[Sorian]

My Holy Week Vacation, Part I Just came home from an entire week of traveling, soul searching, musing and amusement for holy week. A week filled to the brim with... Well. just about everything that there is to be had, seen, experienced and thought of in a holiday away from the city. Holy week here in the Philippines used to be very solemn, and indeed it still is in some parts of the country. There was a time when people here weren't allowed to play, laugh, talk loudly or even smile during the duration of Christ's passion. This is customary for us Filipinos, especially the old folks who still carry on the old ways of our Roman Catholic religion. They sing traditional prayer songs in congregations called pasyam to honor the sacrifices of Jesus Christ and undertake sacrifices of their own. Common ways of personal suffrage here include fasting, abstinence from eating meat, drinking alcohol and engaging in sexual activities, as well as more unique stuff such as self-flagellation and undertaking visita iglesia, during which people may visit several churches over the course of the day to pray to the saints for various purposes. However, times have changed here. Now one can go and spend Holy week with some fun in the sun, and this is usually the time of the year when the people from the city leave their homes and flee to the provinces to experience the glories of summer and freedom from work and school. The most popular, of course, would be the customary visit to the beach. We have several popular places here for a little fun in the water. Boracay comes to mind, as well as Cebu, Puerto Galera and El Nido, Palawan. If you haven't heard of them yet, perhaps it would be a good idea to consider them for a vacation next time you get the chance. I didn't exactly run to the beach for my first trip. I was contemplating on going though, but I didn't exactly have a plan in mind. I just wanted to get away from the city for awhile, regardless of whether I was alone or not. This went on, until a friend called me up and asked me to come with him and his gang to a province to the south of Manila called Batangas. Its a mountainous region full of historical sites and trees, two things that I really, really love. So I said yes immediately, grabbed my stuff and met my friends at the bus station. The journey south was a bit crowded due to the tide of people rushing back to their own provinces. Some went to Laguna, others to Cavite. But we went beyond those two places, deeper into the forests at the very end of Luzon island. The bus trip was quite quiet, as we all took the opportunity to enjoy the various sights to be seen along the way. I myself lapsed into sleep once every hour or so, for the next three hours. We arrived in a very remote town somewhere around a city called Lipa. Its a quaint town full of ancient stone houses built during Spanish times, a rarity in Manila. Being a history and nature buff, it was a feast to my eyes. Everywhere seemed like a wormhole through time, a view into a deep history I can only read about in books and internet sources now. Shady trees were abundant, lining the dusty road that we had to walk for a distance. My friend's family owns a very nice--and creepy--ancestral house that is so well kept that it seemed like time had stood still in that place, left behind by the spirit of progress. The most advanced piece of technology there was probably the refrigerator; even the TV set spoke of old in volumes, being around 50-ish years old in my estiimate. Yellowed portraits of long dead people hung around the walls, with antiques of all kinds adorning the living room. As soon as we dropped our bags we immediately went to see the sights and sounds around the outlying areas. The air was thick with the noise of traditional songs, droning my senses with the shrill voices of old ladies singing to the tune of "Nang si Hudas ay mamatay" (When Judas died) or something like that. Maybe they were practicing, or their sense of time was off because it wasn't 'officially' holy week then. Some modern bungalows with cheap paintjobs stood around the older houses, with a particularly pinkish one catching my attention in a rather bad way. It was annoying to look at, like a girl trying to act cutesy in a skimpy dress despite having the face of a car tire. It just stood out so clearly out of the throng of white-washed mansions and wooden houses around it. We made a camp at a lonely clearing on top of a hill overlooking a nice valley after a 30 minute trek. I carried nothing but my 'essentials' with me, so it wasn't as heavy on me as it was for my companions, who seemed to have carried their entire houses with them for the trip. My friend brought a laptop with him which I borrowed every so often, just to see what's up around here and in other sites, and in the hill, the internet was kinda off and sluggish. Still it had to do for me, for whenever our conversations bogged down due to lack of similar interests, I took the laptop, much to my pal's chagrin. All I wanted to talk about was about my interest in the historic value of the town, all they wanted to talk about was dumb computer games, school life and their girlfriends. Eventually we all found one thing which we all got along with: beer. For a remote town the place sure had a lot of beer, and we spent a huge portion of our funds and time in buying can after can to haul back up the hill for the next two nights. These we spent quite happily, and the backdrop of the darkness never stilled, not until we have exhausted our lungs laughing and our consciousness drinking. Food was quite abundant there too; we had our fill of fruits and breadstuff, with one memorable meal of meat coming from a freshly slaughtered chicken. I had to personally witness the execution of the fat hen, and they chopped its head clean off with a huge butcher knife without so much of a flinch, as if they were used to doing it on a consistent basis. As I cringed in disgust, they toyed with the severed head and impaled it on a thin piece of stick, my companions merely laughed at me and called me a wuss. I did find it tasty after cooked though. It wasn't holy week yet, so to speak, so we feasted on the macabre roast with gusto. When not up the hill I spent my time tinkering with my friend's laptop, just to slow down the supposed-to-be-slow pace which was running around the place. Often the speed of the internet made me want to punch the thing through, but I persevered all the same. I tried to do my thing in the living room of the ancestral house, though the portraits around the place gave me the creeps. They seemed like they were going to pop out of their frames to admonish me or something, the way they bored their charcoal eyes at me. I didn't fail to realize the subtle differences between city life and provincial life while I was there. And by George there was a lot of them. First there was no air-conditioning. The trees and the abundance of nature around the place made the scorching heat here in the Philippines a bit more bearable, but ultimately I am not used to being out in the plain arid wind. I sweat buckets there when it was midday, especially because my whole system was running on alcohol all the time. And the mosquitoes around the place! In the hill its all quiet, with only the sound of crickets accenting the drunken moods we all fell one by one to. I infinitely preferred to sleep in the dirt instead of inside the house, because the buzzing of insects seemed endless. We had to sleep in mosquito nets called kulambo to keep them out, in the sticky and slimy embrace of one another. To make things worse, bathing was a huge problem there because water is quite scarce, and some of my companions have what I would like to gracefully term as smelly feet. So yeah, imagine feeling all sweaty and stuffy with several freaking male bodies piled on either side of you, with the loud buzzing of mosquitoes trying to visit your ears in your slight moments of drunken sleep. It was God-awful hard, to say the least. Fortunately the pros far outweighed the cons. There was a quaint peacefulness to be found in the place, with the simple joys of and outdated modes of living there. During the very last night we spent there, I didn't drink myself silly. I simply enjoyed the stars that served as a brilliant canopy over our heads, feeling a contented smile creeping up my lips as I watched my companions laugh and play around like monkeys around the fire. Then I thought of the things I wanted to run away from here, the things I needed to do, the things that future might hold for me. The things I love, the things I hate, the things I try to do and the things I failed to do, all of them were clearer than day to me that night. For some reason the beer and the atmosphere gave me a clarity I have not known in a long time, and somehow my heart ached for the return. I merely shrugged to myself and sighed. There was no solution to be found in the wilderness, for all my problems are still waiting for me back home. Whether or not I belonged with them did not matter; there was no escaping them. Solutions are vague right now, but I know that they will eventually come. On the third day, we all bade farewell to that little town in Batangas, boarding the bus after some difficulty waiting for one at the stop. The return was much quieter, since we were all dead tired and had to snooze away the trip. I had to be shaken awake when we touched the ground of Manila. I was back to reality. Little did I know that my Holy week escape had only begun. Starting with, well. The start of Holy week proper.

[Sorian]

In the depths of a stolid carapace of a heart, it bleeds... so profusely, as if it were a vein of the earth erupting from within the caverns of time. With legacies staring blankly into nothingness, sweet promises left for naught... It was but a definitive course running towards folly, yet attracted by an alluring, yet gentle scent which once told him to dream. In betrayal of the edicts of compulsory magnanimity... There were... Hands which reached out, holding ancient white roses within their embalmed palms, reviving the freedom granted upon his visions of beauty; of togetherness within every waking moment; of a once feasible eternity, stamped by the seal of a thousand prayers... long since dead. Dead... and buried. Memories of parting lips with a tinge of bittersweet passion etched upon the lines... The taste of perfumed salt lingering by with the passing hours. Gentle touches granted in a silent, suffering demeanor. With every heavy breath came alive, the most readable signs of an ever-distant wish that suffered from fear of daybreak. For at night's end, came reality. Reality covered by mud ducked shoes and sunburnt skin, faded green and simple disdain... that policed the still ever-wishful twins into submission. His now-hidden star will forsake all means to come back, to hoist back its light upon clear, tranquil skies... In a clear move of logic, rife with right decisions. The sad host hangs his head down, his neck broken by an invisible string called fate. In reverent surrender... Conceded to the judgments of the wise; those who serve reason, the more eloquent seekers of harmony. Still... He too is wise. Yet he's but a wise fool... a fool who somehow wishes he continued to be a fool... long before he started to grow of mind.

[Sorian]

"What an odd feeling it is." Its all I could say to the blankness staring back at me in droves, things and feelings fueled by a sense of release that crawled into my spine and gave me such a warm and fuzzy feeling. And as the world around me spun in place I held on to a hand that was rather lovely. Finally I had her to myself. But why was it a hand that was slipping away from my grasp? I tried to hold on, but it was all slippery and red. I wanted her to hold on as I kinda went black all over, blank and motionless. The world kept spinning round and round, but I couldn't move. I wanted to move, mom and the garbage man taught me that I could do what I wanted whenever I wanted. So why can't I move? Why isn't her hand moving with me? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ I remember when the world was still small for me, and my mind flew to places where its never been, to places where space was allowed to take shape, and dragons flew with butterflies. I was such a beautiful child, full of ideas that others found perfectly stupid. But I didn't really mind it. My dad told me before he died to always try to pretend that I'm never hurt, even when they made fun of me and stuff. It was a lesson that I retained -and applied- through every piece of my life, and it was a rather wonderful ride too. One time I tried sharing this crayon drawing I did of a dinosaur to my mom. I made sure to color it along the lines with care so that it would turn out pretty for her. There was green scales on it, and then I drew the big teeth with black, and colored the nails with red. Then I put in a big happy sun and lots and lots of flowers for it to go around in. It looked like a happy dinosaur in a happy place, much like I was. Maybe it could even pass for a Barney type -he was my favorite character- though it was a rather fierce looking one at that. I was so pleased that I could show it to her because she was coming home after a long day at work, sure that it would make her glad. When I found her working on the kitchen table I came up to her and told her to look at it, but she wouldn't even budge. There was a heap of paper stacked on in front of her, and she was muttering and cussing under her breath and breathing heavily with stress. I tugged at her shirt and tried to poke her to look, but she merely cast a glance which scared me. Her hands were balling into fists, but I didn't know what it meant, so I kept on crying and calling for her to look. What she did was a fun little thing, I now appreciate it much more than I did then. She took my drawing and crumpled it, then took the pen and started throwing her anger at it. The dinosaur I did, all green and fluffy, was turning into a mess; she erased the teeth furiously and instead, drew large ram horns all around its eyes, and even put in a big dick at the bottom. After that she screamed, tore it to pieces and stuffed some of it into my mouth. Mom told me to chew the paper very well so I won't get indigestion, then she started smacking my head with her pen. It didn't hurt too much, except when the tip accidentally scratched my eyelid. The paper wasn't too bad either, so long as you follow what she told you. I chewed and chewed, until my mouth was all dry and soapy, and she laughed hard at me. Maybe I was funny-looking, I didn't know. But after the pain, I laughed with her. She seemed happy enough with what I did, so I was glad. So I didn't mind. I was ten then, and I was about to start middle education in the local school. When the first day of school came, I was wearing this nice cap with a cute propeller at the tip. My grandpa brought it for me for my birthday, and I was really happy about it. It spun with the wind whenever it blew, and it sported multiple bright colors. I showed it off to some of the bigger boys, spinning it with my finger round and round. They too, laughed at me. When I tried to laugh with them, they started shoving me, then slammed me into the grass and peed on me. It was rather smelly, but I didn't mind. And I laughed at them too while they did it. They were even nice enough to trod on my cap and smash the plastic propeller with their polished black shoes. I still went to school that day by the way, wearing my cap, and the teacher seemed rather mad at me. All my classmates began to throw pieces of paper whenever I stood up to recite when called, but again, I didn't mind. I smiled and laughed with them too. Then she was there, looking at me with a pair of confused eyes. She was the only one who didn't laugh with me. She was at the end of the class, sitting at the back. I looked at her and asked her out loud, much to the irritation of my classmates, "Why aren't you laughing with us? Aren't you having fun?" She was crying at the back through it all, and after awhile of silence she stood up, marched down the aisle and took my hand, leading me out of the room amidst the boos and chortles of the class. "They were having fun, why did you take me out?" I asked her, curiously. All she did was glare at me with those deep blue eyes of hers and push me to the girls room, where she took my clothes off, splashed me with a hose and then dried me with her shirt. Long blonde hair fell down to her shoulders when she took off her dress, and I clearly saw how her body was pink and white. I drooled, even though I didn't know why, and when she was facing the mirror while trying to put on her dress, I gave her naked back a lick. The girl shuddered and looked at me as if I was some sort of joking devil, but I didn't mind at all. I began pulling her shirt off again, telling her that I was having fun looking at her without her clothes on and that she shouldn't do that yet. Strangely enough, she didn't let me easily. I guess she was matured enough to know then what I was unconsciously trying to do, and when I gave her a lick to the face she screamed for help and scratched me all over. The older boys from the adjacent room came flushing in, and as they pulled me away I smiled at her, letting my tongue wag at her in thanks. They threw me into the garbage dump, then left me there to rot. As if they forgot to include it in my package, they threw my cap in as well, ripped to shreds by the angry mob. I cuddled it in the dump like it was hurt, and stayed there until the next day, when even the collectors themselves gagged at the sight of me. I really liked them, even though one of them actually threw a can of sardines at my face just because he felt like it. They were kind enough to bring me home. My mom was very angry, but I didn't understand why. I had come home, I thought they told me she would be worried. She took a hot iron and pressed it across my back. It kinda hurt, but I didn't mind. There was a glint in her wide eyes that said she was happy. Maybe she was happy that I had come back after all. Maybe, like the guy with the can or sardines and my mom with the bat, we should all do what we want whenever we wanted it. The man and my mom taught me another lesson that I never did forget. Always do what you think is best, even when others think its not good. I am a boy, everything I do is right. Right? Nobody has to say anything when I do something, they should all just let me. I wonder sometimes why my father didn't teach me that before he went on. Luckily, I grew up to be a rather funny looking guy, because even if I didn't try so hard many people noticed me. I kinda have this large lump on my head that didn't go away, because mom kept making it grow. I think she thought it was kinda cute that I grow some horns because it is unique. She would take a large bat or pole, and then whack me in the same spot a couple of times a day, sometimes five. I grew to like the lump; it was always red and cold because it bled often like a bad pimple, and sometimes it reminded me of Barney because it was purple. People looked away at me whenever I smiled too. I guess they didn't like black tar for brushing. Oh, and I also have this nice gimp on my leg from the time they hit it with another bat, a wooden one. Sometimes I scratch my head, and a load of hair would come falling with my fingers. I was happy; I could blow them away and watch them go up in the air to join my dad. Maybe I can float too sometime, maybe soon, but I don't mind waiting. I'm rather fond of these unique traits of mine. They're like my friends, reminding me that I at least have a few things in life worth taking notice of. When its raining, I feel even better. I can feel my bones creaking and stretching with every movement, and it goes well with the blues and purples all around my body. Oh, the blue is wonderful. I got a funny feeling about it sometime though, it was as if it was talking to me, telling me strange things that I found rather amusing too. They tell me that it hurts, and that its miserable and sad and pathetic. I asked them, "Is it? I find it rather funny." Then I laughed. I laughed in the rain, and while I could feel water gushing out of my eyes I didn't see it happen, so it didn't. Several years later, I met her again. The girl in the classroom. In highschool. She was living right across the dorm I was staying on. Oh, she was such a treat. The hair she had was long and golden, prim and proper. Some part of me wondered how the pink parts of her had grown; judging from the sight of them on the outer rims of her red blouse they must have grown too. She seemed all too happy to see me, because she screamed at the sight of me wagging my tongue at her. I was wearing my favorite jacket with Barney on it, and tattered jeans I have had since I was fifteen. I was eighteen then, and they were a bit short for my cranky legs, but I didn't mind. I came up to her and asked if I could taste her again. The expression on her face seemed happy enough that she wanted to slap me hard, but she didn't. Instead, she told me she had to go somewhere, but she'd be right back to talk to me. So I said I'd wait because I missed the fun times we had, and I wanted to catch up with how we've both grown. So I waited in the park outside her dorm for her to come out, feeding off the morning, afternoon and night airs because there wasn't anything for me to do. Then it rained. It rained very well, and it soaked me all night, all dusk, till morning. I sat there, thinking about how warm her touch would be against the muscles of my body, but it didn't happen that day. The police came and dragged me away with hard hands, hands that dug into my shoulder blades and hands that itched to give me some more lovely patterns. But at least I saw her peek from her dorm window. I gave her the familiar tongue wag as thanks for having the cops take me home. I probably couldn't do that then on my own, but I was ready to try. I didn't manage to finish high school, mainly because my mom didn't wanna spend so much on my lunch money, which I always gave happily to my friends. As a reward, they always gave me more uniqueness to parade around. Sometimes the kids there waved all manners of stuff against me because they found me to be a tad bit too unique for their taste. Books are my most common friends then, they hit in a not-too-soft, not-too-hard way, and they often left me without too much to swaddle around. But the bats and rods, oh how they were such amusing little things. They were being used because I was unique, and yet with each introduction I become even more unique. They're trying to make me un-unique by making me even more unique? That's funny. I got a job eventually. Some guy in a rather funny looking sweater and a bonnet gave me something they called 'drugs'. When I asked them what it was, they simply told me to try it for myself. It was the best feeling ever, and it made me lose out and nosedive to the pavement a couple of times, picking off a couple of my teeth. They all howled in laughter as I did all sorts of funny things to make them happy, just because I wanted to. I wound up in some establishment that had red lights everywhere, and naked girls dancing around in sleek metal bars. They were all trying to rile up the place with their dancing; their dancing was dirty, so I took off my dirty clothes and started dancing too. Eagerly I took to the pole and touched the dancing girl and licked and hugged her. She didn't seem to mind, but happily she screamed at me when I said I didn't have any dollars with me. She called a couple of big burly guys who threw me out of the place. My clothes were left inside, but I didn't mind. I simply walked home as I was, dancing all the way to the tune left in my head. Another lesson was taught to me then. Never go anywhere without money. Combining it with the stuff that were taught to me beforehand, it made a very nice philosophy; money is something that people required, so always make them happy by taking money and giving it to them. Then smile and wag your tongue. Years later, I grew a nice big beard. I liked my beard, it often burned and made a funny smell whenever I lit up a lighter for my shot of crack. One time it actually reached my face, the flames I mean. But for some reason, it felt empty, and I felt hungry. So hungry that when I saw the girl from the dorm again in a poor alleyway -then she was wearing a nice black leather dress and smoking a Marlboro- I immediately came up to her and tried to eat her. She tasted good still after all the time that had passed; there was some wine in her skin, and it really did go red when I bit and chewed on her. Daddy told me to always pretend that I'm not hurt, so I wasn't. But was she listening to dad? No, she wasn't. She didn't seem to be having fun at all, but I didn't mind. Mom and the garbage man taught me to do whatever I wanted, and I wanted to eat her. So I kept nibbling and chewing and gnawing and licking. Doing everything I wanted like how they lectured and kept me going. Dad's voice, mom's and the garbage man's. I could hear them whispering. "I'm sure she didn't mind." But oh, look. At the back of the alley, the cops are here again. Why are they here, though? Did she call them to take me home again? I looked at her face, she was not smiling at all. In fact, she probably couldn't see me right now. There were two empty holes in her where the eyes were, but I ate them. They were rather tasty. Gun shots? Who are they shooting at, I wonder? Maybe they felt like shooting around. I wanted to join them, but I couldn't move my legs at all. The gimp probably had given way. I saw five, seven, ten holes in my chest. The girl in my hand probably wouldn't like it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ So why can't I move now? I'm so full, maybe I'm just sleepy. When I try to move my eyes but there isn't anything to see. The hand in my own isn't even squirming anymore, maybe it was because I had eaten the whole arm? Oh, I don't know, if she wanted to move she can, right? Maybe. I'm a little tired. I think I'll just sleep for now. I'm sure they won't mind too.

[Sorian]

A Three hour symphony by David Lim There was a time when he had looked at her only to see her smile, to meet her gaze and lock it to his just because he felt like it. He was happy, he was content and complete, filled with no want of anything that a man could ask for. But just like some broadway musical which could run for countless weeks before exhausting every last bit of interest in it, his own run with her had to end sometime. He was loathe to admit it, but everything fell apart on his watch, and the audience -them- had found it far too debilitating, too sad, to continue. He led casually her to the room, opened the door and ushered her in, then flicked the light on to inspect their surroundings. It was almost the same as the time when they had first gone there several months ago, but still just a little bit colder. The air-con unit was in full blast against the white of his skin, chilling him to the bone, but he did not care. All he could think of was savoring one last dance with the cute and mellow girl he had turned into the sultry, fiery woman she was now, the girl who had turned him, shy and naive boy that he was, into the wiser, better man he was now. One last union with the woman whom he had plucked from the depths of her inescapable, destructive life and given an unspoken hope for the future. The clock above the dresser and the watch on his wrist were perfectly synchronized, and they were both ticking down mercilessly. Three hours. Three hours was all he could afford, but he felt it was more than enough to ensure that the moment would forever be encased in the edgy coffin that was his heart. He vigorously unloaded the pains and the memories of days long gone, laying it all down on the corn-starched sheets of their rented bed. His every forward push was encrusted with some word that was brutally questioning, some word that pleased, then pleaded to God for a sign that he was mistaken in his thoughts, that the bald-faced truth he was staring in the face was all a nightmare that would end when he wakes. She said nothing in response, only groaned and cussed in pleasure with every inward thrust, but they were somewhat hollow and stinging with an emptiness that made the truth all the more apparent for him. Every hot breath that rushed out of his hoarse, dry throat was littered with age-old inquiries that required no said words to be uttered, ones that were loaded and almost incoherent, pregnant with a tremulous fear of an unknown tomorrow. How did it all amount to this? How did it come to the point when they did it without feelings, without care? Of course he knew, despite the fact that for such a long time they have held against them, contained them in iron wills that didn't seek any means to solve them. All their fights, their arguments, their jealousies, their insecurities, and the betrayals. Every one of them dared them for so long, brought them teetering on the edge of break-up, of collapse. Many times they had faltered, and every time they patched things up and grew stronger in each others shadow. But this one? He knew it was different this time; there was a sense of finality, of banality to it that compelled him to draw it up as the one last act that will bring everything to an end. Perhaps they had at last outgrown each other, and he accepted that, if only for the fact that he had loved and served her as dearly and as long as he could have. Their story would have made the Iliad pale in shame, for the deepness was astounding, the plots convoluted, only the outcome was left for them to write. They had begun in good terms, and he was determined to at least end it in the same way. They swiveled and jockeyed in different positions and all manners of ways, touching, kissing and rolling all over each other, trying to pound each other into a desperate revitalization of feelings buried under unholy mountains of resentment and inflicted pain. But there was no satisfaction to be had, and no reincarnation to be found. The whitewashed, wallpapered walls that surrounded them muted the crashing noise of reality outside, but it was only a matter of a while before it came flooding in. The mirrors above, beside and beneath them did nothing but make him gaze into faces that were uncertain and wrought with despair. Everything felt surreal, as it was just one last breath of air in a world where there was both joy and misery to be had in perfect union; one last sally of a dying love to act on shameless impulses, before everything stepped back into a world of grey and numbness. When there was little left to exhaust from inside him, he paused for rest and laid there with his lost love in his arms, holding fast to what is -and will always remain- familiar and beautiful to him, even though in reality he knew and begrudgingly accepted it was all dilapidated beyond repair. He cradled her closer, huddled together with her, and at the end of the second hour, broke down into tears of release, sorrowfully consoling her -and himself- to mind courage and faith when the hammer finally falls. The words were strong but kind, and they were laced and drunk with a fire that was sure to be extinguished soon. They reached out to his love, who wet the fallen locks of his sweaty hair with her own hot tears. All they could do was cry for what seemed like an eternity, a period which took away so much of their accumulated burdens. Indeed, the fatigue in their outstretched, enveloping, naked bodies was nothing compared to the overwhelming sense of loneliness that was about to part them. Alas, the clock was screaming the third hour to him like they were incessant profanities, and there was still so much to be had with so little time left. Another flurry of passionate kisses made him come back alive, and they proceeded to overwhelm each other for the last run to the finish. They fought against the shaky limitations of their own bodily capacities and left nothing undone. Everything seemed so clear, so beautiful to him; how they met; how they first got together; their first date; their first kiss; all the times they went to the mall to buy chocolates and candies for her sweet tooth; all the times when he'd buy sweet teddy bears for her for no occasion at all; the times when she'd compose love and apology letters for him whenever she made him upset; the times they had made love in secret up in her room. All the precious memories of their good times came alive as he gazed down on her youthful, exalted face from his view over her, her throttled words begging him to give her more of himself to take with her to distances unknown, horizons yet unseen. He was setting her -and himself- free. She was his world, his life, his everything. She was the red star in his blue sky, the rough diamond he chanced on amidst smooth, polished pearls, the master mistress of his soul, the purpose of his existence. She had given him a gift that far outweighed the troubles her betrayals had caused, the pains she had inflicted. All of them paled before the sublimity of the memories of joy and sadness that she was going to leave him. Packing up his bags and casting one last look of wistfulness behind him, they parted ways with hands that were steady and without regret, a sweet entwined hold that devolved into a handshake before it was released. He fled into the bitter night, alone, but never forgotten.

[Alice]

I truly love your short stories.

Your writing style is more poetry than prose, and your images are so sweet and at the same time shocking in my mind. You know how to thrill your readers. I hope you keep posting little bits of writing here, I love reading them, although I sometimes don't know what to comment or criticize.

[Sorian]

Dreamer girl by David Lim If you ask me what is up with the world today, I will tell you straight up, without pretenses what's up. That would be me and Him. Yes, I will lift my head high, my chin up, and scream Him and His praise to the ends of the earth, knowing that He would do the same for me. The journey had been long, and it was hard. But right now, I wouldn't regret a single string of it. There was a time when there was sunshine with every classic moon at night in my heart. I have been there, done that; yet despite everything I appreciated it all. But I constantly find myself lacking of someone to appreciate it with me. Who wouldn't want to have somebody to hold during cold rainy nights? To shield me from the falling drops with a wide umbrella and a loving embrace? I am no different from any other girl out there. I am a realist, yes, and I can shut people out as easily as the sand absorbs the sea, but it has never stopped me from wishing, hoping that a constant anchor would come and refuse to let me be swept away by the storm. I have seen so many of them come to me and then leave, people who always strive to be perfect for me, even though I understood that they could never be. They planted the world in shrubs beneath my feet, worshiping me as if, by virtue of the pains that had engulfed me before, I was entitled to it. I appreciated the sentiments, really; who wouldn't want to be pampered with roses and effort, with songs and music, with poems and cakes? But it wasn't what I needed. I wish life was simpler, that people would try to be more humble, less presumptuous; some of them were possessive of me, yet they knew far too little of what I am, or was, to even begin to grasp what it was that I really needed. I didn't need love, no. Not as much as I needed peace. I was left with so much to give, but too little to give with. Turmoil was my most constant ravager, and against the travails, indifference was my only defense. With it I was safe, yes, but I was shut into a hole that I wanted desperately to get out of. He was my companion's dearest friend, a brotherhood which stemmed from way past their shared memories of me, and I adored how close they were. My penultimate boyfriend was, as every other man before him had been, a passing sensation. He started off with a ridiculous amount of pampering, then started to mellow out in the end. What made him so different was nothing too pretty; he started seeing other girls behind my back, even though I gave him nothing less than everything of me. I was left drained of emotion, as jaded as one could be. Eventually it occurred to me that it was so not worth it to stay and be an incredulous fool for his own benefit. Whenever someone approached me I hissed at them behind the bars of my confines, eschewing any sort of salvation because I wanted to save myself. Then I would ask myself, how can I? He came into my life at this time, without much fanfare. Simply another Boy in a strange place, another Name to remember, another lost Soul in a sea of people, trying to find His way through the constant struggles of college as I was. He started out as a blank Face that eventually grew bright when the rest of my world dimmed around me. Even though the world I inhabit had become too distasteful to habituate, He simply didn't give up. He would accompany me when my former lover would fail to, and He would come and cheer me up whenever I needed it. Eventually it came past the point when the building feelings inside of Him--yes, He was adamant enough to admit to me His intentions from the get go--were threatening to distance Him away from His great friend, my former lover. Friends taking over other friends' broken relationships have always been ugly affairs for us; it was simply betrayal, especially when there are no words said, just actions proliferated. But He was definitely different; he respected all sides, and tried to prioritize me above the rest. He had enough courage to risk what He has held dear for me, to make me happy, all for me, and manned up to tell His friend, my former lover, straight up how He wanted things to go now that my relationship with the former lover had crumbled to the dust of apathy. Truth be told, the sanction he had given us--a half-joking, half-serious green light--should have been taken as such, and it was. It didn't help matters when he left the other half open for himself, as if he was merely daring us to pursue our own ambitions for ourselves. The former lover was just as trapped as I was, delusional after he fawned after himself, and after other girls, that I would always be standing outside his door after he was done playing. He was right; I was done playing, but I was leaving the door without any hint of presence, and it skewered him inside. Their friendship had endured for years on a sort of auto-pilot that you'd find in parasites. When both parties are happy, it is all good and dandy. But when one falls down and is left in need of aid, the selfish parasite then either breaks ship or starts leeching off from others, spilling his friend's sucked blood into the lifestream of others. True enough, that's what the former lover did. He poisoned the minds of their circle of friends against Him, painting himself with the brightest of colors in a desperate attempt to prop himself up, as a means of satisfying his own scarred ego. I had loved him, then rejected him because he simply didn't have enough of it in him to at least shore up the distant needs that I had in me, the deflated spirit in me that he caused when he kissed another girl in front of me. No, I could not take it, and I didn't take it. And despite the fact that He suffered the most for it, He would only shake his head sadly, cry at other times, without any word of angst or hate for his fallen friend, my former lover. But He and I were happy. He and I remained happy because we simply began to pull away and above their scheming and squabbling, battling through emotional upheaval to achieve at least an inkling of what we had always wanted for ourselves. I had wanted peace, yes, but since it is far away because of the hypocritical and delusional ogres shoring around us, I received the next best thing: unconditional love. The voices in my head told me that I should stop for a moment to see to it that the people around us stopped bragging and pointing dirty fingers at us, but what else was there to be done? Replacing what was lost is not the priority of those who can create new ones. We will simply build bridges, not burn them. If they keep knocking them down then we have at least done our best. Much like how He never gave up, despite the lacerations which my broken life had caused him, I would never give up on Him and what we have, even if it means sacrificing the whole world to the flame of my anger. That's always been my secret to love; I never leave any stones unturned, no affection wanting. People often told me that it was wrong, but I always, and will always digress. That is simply how I go by. Eventually, even the voices inside my head have turned silent from so much happiness. His love had simply petrified every loose strand of my heart swaying lifelessly against the cold shrill wind. In each union of our hands dwelt the warmth that had eluded me after all these years, and suddenly, the rain stopped threatening me. When I had once reveled in black and white, there are now colors for me to immerse myself happily in. There is no perfection in our relationship, and I prefer it that way indeed. here is a certain beauty in imperfection that always entails the human psyche; to live, and not merely exist, one has to be closer to man than he is to God. As the old ones say, "The most difficult things to get are always the most beautiful." I have achieved at least an inkling of my dreams--now ours. If you ask me what is up with the world today, I will tell you straight up, without pretenses what's up. That would be me and Him. Because its all good and true.

[Sorian]

Pusa A playful little thing you are to see Rolling around with shapely paws in fur. Though you move about like a quick blur Your orange projects the sunlight freely. You have turned into my desire to have To scratch you, hug you, is all I want To give you food and drink and care, to grant Myself the satisfaction of your love. But every kind approach that is given Is met with a firm wish for solitude Someone said that you have a bad attitude But I digressed, to see my point proven. Yet I know there is no denying it; I see it in the curious look you give A petty revenge as subtle reprieve. What you wish is simply what you see fit. Fineness boundless, encased in gentleness, You lure your prey, which is me, to approach Only to ignore every whim to poach A gaunt reaction to your idleness. You lie about idle in a fat daze. Rarely do you even motion to greet What I try to earn your affection with Yet I am the one drawn closer unfazed. A free soul you are, tamed by none so far You come and go like a master who pleased Each time I do my hardest to appease You hiss and flee beneath the nearest car. You stubborn little thing, who hates such walls I want you so, yet there is none to do That can equate your unwillingness to Compromise your freedom and heed my calls.

[Sorian]

Part not the shadow from the light my sweet For both halves lust for life in unison. Much like how thy beauty sunders the beat Of my heart between awe and true passion. Story upon story have they ‘bout thee And the vague truth is all but lost within. Yet such wonder can’t be hidden from me, Each excuse is but too weak and thin. I can see beneath each smile and each gaze The beauty that hides outside the view. Dare me, allow me brave the winding maze And trek fastidious the path to you. No hurt shall deter, nor shall any words bar The single vision burned into my mind. No point too high or deep, or angle far I shall cast all to the footprints behind. May these drenched feelings trumpet the roar, Scream into the timeless face of this earth. All come to pass and be legend or lore; May victory be a death and rebirth. Let me catch each falling secret from thine eyes, when the dim blaze of night rules your senses. These trembling hands will not quit on the rise To take you back to reminiscences. On these broad shoulders shall be your grand throne, Duly yours to watch on from far above. Falter shall it not and shall be thy home, To sate thy wand’rings with eternal love. Part not the shadow from the light my sweet For both halves are lovers destined for pain. The pain shall be but down the road to meet The things in life that lovers live to gain.

[Sorian]

A good long while it has been, my fellow Mizaharians. If anyone is concerned at all or interested to know, things are starting to look up for me; college is looking snip and snap and barring any unforeseen catastrophes (like, the world suddenly goes to hell?) I will graduate on time. And then it will be teacher Dave time.

But as of now, the emotions inside are still cluttered. Allow my return post to Mizahar to be a very un-constructive and unkind one, just to help me unwind my strings. There is a lot of pent-up things which I have been dealing with these past few months I've been away, and just to spice up my future life for the coming year, a year with Miz hopefully back in a lofty perch within my daily routines, I would like to vent it all out here.

They say that there has never been bitterness where there wasn't great love once. Well fucking damn, that's right. But in a sense where the latter part was never for you.

I hate you. I'm jealous, envious, sick and tired of hearing you intrude into our daily conversations as if you're some perfect paragon of man-nish-ness. You're not dead, you're just far away, yet your hold remains so vivid and so strong. Sometimes I wish I was a man with no conscience whenever I hear you and that f I could kill you, I would.

You are the luckiest damn fool who ever lived, because you have everything I could ever want and could never have. Granted, this makes me look like a tired old pissant, and maybe I admit I am. Whatever the hell did you ever do to deserve THAT?

But fuck this. I just want things to move ahead without your shadow looming over me. I am tired of carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, a world which is not mine to commandeer, but yours to take whenever you do come back.

I am not some damn caretaker.

And happy new year.