I’m so tired,
I don’t know what to do

I’m so tired,
my mind is set on you

I wonder, should I call you?
but I know what you would do

you’d say
I’m putting you on
but it’s no joke

it’s doing me harm
you know I can’t sleep

I can’t stop my brain
you know it’s three weeks

I’m going insane

You know I’d give you everything I’ve got
For a little peace of mind

I’m so tired
I’m feeling so upset

Although I’m so tired
I’ll have another cigarette
—”I’m So Tired” by The Beatles

In Which Nag-Taglish Ako Sa Sobrang Sama Ng Loob

Sobrang nakakasama ng loob how I can’t update this blog anytime I want to. Nakakainis yung kawalan ko ng access sa internet, yung kabagalan ng laptop, yung pagbaha ng mga thoughts and ideas every time may internet—so much so na hindi mo na lang ma-handle yung dami at you end up not doing anything dahil masyadong madaming ideas to keep up with—and the mere fact na I made this blog to be privy to my multimedia thoughts pero hindi ito nakaka-live up to my expectations, and it’s mostly all my fault. Kasalanan ko na walang matinong internet yung bahay na tinitirhan ko, na wala akong pera pambili ng matinong laptop, na wala akong oras mag-ayos ng mga kaisipan kahit buong araw ako nag-iisip. Kasalanan ko na deprived ako.

Ah tangina. Gusto ko pa din talagang i-maintain ‘to, I swear. Kaso I want to be able to do it on my own time, in my own pace; how I want to, when I want to. And you know me: pag hindi ayon sa gusto ko, madalas ayoko nalang. Sobrang sakit sa kalooban na patapos na ang November ay 12 posts pa lang din ang nagagawa ko dito—may daya pa yun, like 75% of that number is made up of Sky photos or music—kahit pa sobrang dami kong mga naiisip. I mean, sure, most of those thoughts end up sa journal ko, but like I said, I made this blog for a purpose, and that purpose is to cater to my multimedia thoughts, which make up the bulk of my thinking process.

So yun. Nakakaiyak man, tanggap ko na siguro na I won’t be able to maintain this blog, or at least not as much as I want to. I’ll be waiting for the time na magkaroon na ako ng kahit maayos na internet man lang—when it does come, I swear I will come back to this blog and post every single damn thing that crosses my mind and I will love every minute of it—but until then, kailangan kong magtiyaga sa cramped situation I am in, i.e. being able to make posts within the daily 30-second window in the dumbfuck internet connection, or not post at all.

The cracks of my heart grow in micromillimeters with every single urge to blog ignored, but there’s nothing I can do but tape over these cracks and wait.

In Which I Do Not Want To Do Anything

I slept in my underwear the whole day. I suppose there is no good reason for me to have to mention that, but I guess I just thought it would make me look good in retrospect, or make the situation more romantic (because y’know, people in the movies do that all the time). However, I do believe that when people like me—i.e. people who are usually self-conscious to the point of paranoia even in isolation—sleep in their underwear instead of the usual comfortable and sensible clothes, something probably went wrong somewhere.

I feel like I fell down some stairs and broke my back at some point in the day, but forgot. I’ve been sleeping on and off for almost 9 hours now, in 3-hour intervals, after having stayed up speaking to my friend and to myself the whole night. I haven’t drank or eaten anything since the night before, but when I got here—home—this morning all I wanted to do each time I slept and then woke up was sleep some more. I’m not even sure if I wanted to do that or if if it was only a biological need to do my body justice. I didn’t feel any kind of actual stomach-wrenching hunger, only the slight nagging thought of my food going to waste if I don’t eat it some time soon. I wasn’t thirsty; I only found that out when I brought my water bottle to my lips in the hopes of finding something I really wanted at that moment.

Longing and craving for something has long since been my jam. It’s my thing. I can’t go a day without it, as neither can any other self-loathing bastard full of insecurity raised in a community where ugliness isn’t optional but is still frowned upon anyway, like it was your fault. I always have to want something; it’s my way of feeling alive, because “to want is to be human,” to completely alter  an old cliché. And so, this disorienting feeling of not wanting to do anything—and not wanting anything—with furious fervor is somehow another novel way in which I can die each day.

And I am tired of dying anew everyday, without even feeling alive in the first place.

“All of a sudden two decades have passed and you still have not kissed anyone with tongue, or kissed anyone at all for that matter, or had a 3 AM conversation with someone who would rather look into your eyes for ten minutes straight than talk. You have never worn a lover’s sweater or “forgotten” it at home in your bedroom just so you would have an excuse to see them again. You have never even stood face-to-face with someone who makes your hands shake so hard it feels like they’re both having a separate anxiety attack.

This causes you much guilt and self-blame and sadness but above all, an overwhelming curiosity. Are you really that ugly, that unwanted, that uninteresting, that boring, that no one, absolutely no one, has ever looked at you like the only thing on earth?

The answer is no. The better answer is that someone out there, somewhere in the world, is “wondering what it’s like to meet someone like you,” and they have two decades worth of love stored in their veins like a shoot-‘em-up drug, and they’re just about ready to inject it into someone else’s bloodstream. All you have to do is roll up your sleeves and wait for it to happen.

At times you felt so lonely you could stand at the edge of a cliff with nothing beneath you but air and grass and a long, long way down, and you’d still feel emptier than that canyon itself. Maybe you even danced with yourself alone in your room a few times, arms outstretched around a ghost, pretending someone else’s hands were on your waist, someone else’s eyes boring into yours.

Or maybe you fell temporarily in love with strangers on public transportation, fell in love with anybody who so much as accidentally brushed your hand on the way past. For you, falling in love with dozens of people a day was a coping mechanism for not having anyone to love you in return. But people are not eggs and falling in love with a dozen of them does not mean your shell will remain uncracked. One day you’re going to hit the point where you’re so desperate for human contact that you’re going to snap in half and all your love will bleed out like egg yolk.

But someone out there is eating a bowl of Ramen noodles right now, or putting on slippers, or settling into bed. They are doing all the normal things that you’ve done in your own life. They are just like you. They have cellulite and extra fat in all the wrong places and goals and fears and doubts and bad handwriting.

The truth is that they are just like you, and being just like you, they’re looking for a lover too. They’re what you might call a soulmate.
They think they’re all alone in feeling the way they do, but you’re really both two halves of a whole.

And one day you’ll meet them, bump into them on the street, and your two halves will be put together, and you’ll make one.”

— Writings For Winter, “For Twenty Year-Olds who have never been loved” by Meggie C. Royer

“This is an apology letter to the both of us
for how long it took me to let things go.

It was not my intention to make such a
production of the emptiness between us
playing tuba on the tombstone of a soprano
to try and keep some dead singer’s perspective alive.
It’s just that I coulda swore you had sung me a love song back there
and that you meant it
but I guess sometimes people just chew with their mouth open

so I ate ear plugs alive with my throat
hoping they’d get lodged deep enough inside the empty spots
that I wouldn’t have to hear you leaving”

 

— excerpt from “Hurling Crowbirds At Mockingbars (Hope Is Not A Course Of Action)” by Buddy Wakefield