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My hobbies come and go. My interests are flighty, like a Cariñosa, like a coquettish little bitch.

At one point I was dancing. At another, I was singing. There were phases in which I painted, drew, sketched, cross-stitched, plagiarized, baked, cart-wheeled, and played the piano. I was so invested in those things; though I now realize that I'm actually no good at any of them.

I used to love opera and classical. Now I can only appreciate pieces that I find familiar.

I was stuck on CLAMP once; Tsubasa Chronicles and Cardcaptor Sakura were my life. Now, I can only criticize it and wonder what on earth I was thinking.

There was a time I was actually religious, and was disappointed whenever I missed a mass on Sunday. I was excited to take my communion because it made me feel closer to God.

I used to love, dare I say it, Twilight. Well, there's something with which I don't regret jumping ship.

And now, I love Neil Gaiman, Miguel Syjuco, Jonathan Stroud, and J.K. Rowling. I love the idea of a different world within our own; something actually between the lines our lives are writ upon. Different, shifting, and endless perspectives.

These days, I'm something of an atheist. A deist. Something like that. I can hardly find it in myself to not roll my eyes when someone tries to tell me that I should believe in (which is exactly my point. You're not my boss, I can damn well be Buddhist or Taoist if I want to). The thought of doing anything other than lie around or malling in the weekends is unheard of now. My mother doesn't know, and I'm not sure if I'll ever tell her.

I love U2, Queen, and all those old guys. I love rock. I'm also a fan of a share of more modern artists, like 30 Seconds to Mars, Muse, and Snow Patrol, but I will never stop believing that the golden age of music has long passed us.

I'm writing now.

I'm writing, and I enjoy it. I love it.

I felt the same way when I was cross-stitching. I felt the same when I was drawing or sketching.

It makes me wonder if that's going to change anytime soon.


Title: Facets
Dedication: violentmango
Warning: Unbeta'd. Murder.
Summary: A relationship is a jewel with infinite facets. As each side takes its moment to glint in the light, a story is told.


There are silent cries for it in the night, in a city of lights and grime.

They lay together in the darkness, the visions of the screen blurred in their eyes.

There is a coil ready to spring between them – to remove it promises escape from a name and deception. It promises the joy of a bird and the fortune of the world.



The words are poison – just as that the serpent spoke to Eve in the garden. To say them is to sin: to desire the fruit on the tree and pick one. The skin bruises easily and it tastes of fine wine.

The consequence is dreadful, but you are indifferent.




It is a secret they both share, tucked away in the alcoves of their hearts – something like a prized trophy. The memory of acquiring it is hazy, but the touch of pride still spikes. The gold glints in the corner of their eyes and it is impossible to ignore or forget.



Illumination; veils are lifted, curtains are opened.

Windows in the sky let the light from the sun flood in. They widen, pushing whatever cloud away. There is euphoria – silent, but in the air around. Radiance balances and overturns — a glass of water to a thirsting man’s tongue.



The words are said, and the souls never felt lighter or heavier. The dust in the air swirls in the light of the apartment, but the two still sit and stare at one another, hearts beating as one.

Perhaps there is something else.



They are god, goddess, and worshipper at once. They are idols that worship one another at once – there are sacrifices, praises, and blessings.

It is the proof of existence that makes it last.



They are papier-mâché – bits and piece of something fragile, possibly torn glued together to form something beautiful – exhibited to a wide audience, the world. They are skin to skin, breath to breath, and heart to heart.

They stay that way until it hurts.



Years have passed, and the day is a movie watched over and over again. The love is a shriveled pea beneath a mattress and a poisoned core in an apple. They are on the edge of a sharp knife.

It is a hushed telephone conversation.

One is waiting for the other to finally put down the phone.



She starts it first – he notices that she begins to wear perfume once more and returns home with the scent slightly muddled. The clothes from when they had first started seeing each other were dug up from the back of the closet and worn once more.

There is brightness in her eyes, but they do not shine for him.



He sees her sitting with another.

They’re hands are twined together.

In his eyes is a Greek fire threatening to lay siege and destroy the greatest kingdoms and fortresses in the world at the expense of a thousand men and women, a hundred golden goblets and necklaces, and his own self.



“You once told me you loved me.”

The words are hushed and hissed – a secret and a proclamation rolled into one. Saying it to her is saying it to himself; just like those many times he had practiced before a cracked mirror.

“And now you will show it.”



She doesn’t know how to escape this.



A knife pressed against his neck – a gun pointed once more to her heart.

There was a pounding in their hearts, lost breath mingled in the air. The glamour leaves their skin and they see each other clearly for the first time.

It was love.



As the world around them crumbled and collapsed, they stared at each other – one with eyes like a mirror and another like a television filled with only static.

He was the only one left standing.

There was nowhere left to go.



Even after the heat in her skin dissipates and her body is rigid, he is still there.

He sees it all – the broken glass and splintered wood splayed around them, the ring that he had not given her in the palm of her hand.

He howls.



He leaves, and they look for him.

Everyone does.

They fail, and they do not find him as he sits in the alleys, staring intently at the cracked walls of the building before him. The noise around does not bother him at all and does not shake him from reverie.



One day, he feels something. It was just when they had stopped searching for him.

He opens their hand once again and places himself between their fingers. The hand crushes him in its grasp and he sees light no more.



Concrete walls and iron bars – to the right is the bed.

The world is still, constant.

There is the flowing of air from his nose and down to his lungs. Over his skin is some material of sorts – the harsh material served as his clothes. His eyes stare sightlessly as his ears listen to the other inmates.

There is also the gentle beating of something in his chest – he does not remember what it is.



There are words that one forgets after lack of use – meanings are erased off a blackboard and the lines in stone fade away as the water washes them away.

He forgets many things sitting in his cell.



Something stirs. He does not know whether it is within him or outside of him. It is unknown whether he actually cared, either.

Whether he cared or not depended on how convincing the vision of her in an apple-green dress was. It depended on how much he cried and how much he laughed when she approached and sat beside him.



“I loved you”

“I know. I loved you too.”



He tried to embrace her, beg for her forgiveness.

The only response he received was a blanket of stars and the rust on the bars.



He searched for her in his dreams – the softness of her skin, the brightness of her eyes. She stands before him, just out of his reach. Once or twice, he might have been able to touch a sleeve or a strand of her hair.

There are several attempts, mostly fruitless. Mindless equation is sifted through and applied over and over. Whether the relationship was a function or not cannot be tested.

Sometimes he gets it – an answer.

Most of the time, he doesn’t.



He wrote something on a piece of paper and a pen he had asked for – the warden was convinced that he wouldn’t try to take his own life after staying only in the cell for the past few years. No one understood the scribbles on the wrinkled paper.

He was sick, and he knew it.



The end.


Reel Around the Sun

Reel around the sun,

with all its freedom

in a blazing carnival

of forgotten miracles.


Reel around the sun

embracing the earth

that softly whispers

into a girl’s dream.


Reel around the sun

dancing storms of fire

onto the courtyards of

the Forbidden City.


Reel around the sun,

the flower of centuries,

with no words or cries,

til time lifts your burden.


Reel around the sun

that glows ever brighter

in a new world’s harbours,

From the beginning til now.


Written for Ms. V's birthday.

I know, I fail so bad in poetry. But I was actually happy with how this turned out.


Another One Rides the Bus

It used to be so easy, thinking that the Philippines could actually rise from the ashes. Our main problem was the economy and the unrest in the South, but otherwise, we were on the road to something. I don't know what that something is, but it was something, dammit.

And suddenly, like a deer in headlights, we are derailed from that road by this:

If you can't recognize this, then ignorance has clung to you for the past few weeks. Try opening up a newspaper or watching a bit of news: it's probably in there somewhere.

First of all, I have to say that all parties involved in the situation, before and after, have acted rashly (to say the least).

I can somehow understand Mendoza, but did he really think that he could get his job back through these means? It just gave the PNP even more reason not to reinstate him.

And the Special Team they put together.


They are supposed to be one of the best teams in the country. If that's all we've got, then the Philippines has just become the laughingstock of the world. If you were watching, then you would have noticed that those men were completely unprepared.  I mean, some of them weren't even wearing helmets! And after God-knows-how-many times they threw tear gas in, a number of them weren't even wearing gas masks!

These men were supposed to be willing to give their lives up to save those of others', and this is what they give us?

I could have gotten in that bus faster than they did.

Also, a few days before that incident, a cellphone video of a man being tortured physically and mentally by some police popped up on the news.

Honestly, I can't even take the authorities in my own country seriously anymore.

And to add insult to injury, Hong Kong's discouraged everyone from travelling to the Philippines. I understand that they're angry and upset, and it's very well justified, but why must you press the mistake of one man to an entire country? Mendoza may or may not have been in his right mind at the time, but his mind was his own. Filipinos are not out to get every single tourist from Hong Kong. Making generalizations about us because of him makes you no better than everyone else in this crazy world quickly spinning out of control.

I don't mean to offend anyone, and if I have, then I apologize.

I just really feel let down.


Quiet Entrance

Well, this is me, Wayward's Passenger from FF.Net, completely unsure if she has acted wisely in the past minute.

A few months ago, I was completely unaware of the existence of LiveJournal, but now... Well, obviously, I've caught on.

But what does having a LiveJournal entail, exactly? From the different accounts I've seen, it's not just blogging or posting mindlessly. There's something more intimate and special about this community than others like Facebook and Multiply.

Frankly, I'm terrified.

This is the part I'm supposed to tell you about myself, yes?

I live, I eat, I think, I sleep, and I write.

Let me elaborate on that.

I Live
I'm  a human being who takes residency in a small street in the Philippines. Can't say where I study, or I might be shot down by the nuns at my school (doyouseewhatIdidthere?). I'm normally very busy, but not busy enough to give up my time on the computer (I should be studying for a Very Important Long Test, but I'm not. See?).

I Eat

I’m in love with food. Even when I’m not hungry, I love the feel and taste of food on my tongue – the delightful tanginess of my favorite soup, sinigang, and the warmth as it goes down my throat; the lovely sweetness of Haagen Dazs strawberry ice cream.


Excuse me. I think I’ve gotta go find something to eat.


I Think

The fact that I exist proves this. My teacher once told my class, quoting from a now-forgotten man, “I think, therefore I am.”


Since then, I’ve been inspired by the very idea of existing because of thought. What divide separates what exists and what isn’t? What is real and what is simply a dream?


To what degree is that divide permeable?


It’s fascinating, isn’t it?


I Sleep

Strangely, I love sleep, yet I can’t find the strength to actually do it in the evening. By the time I begin to feel lethargy, it’s already late into the night.


Perhaps I’m nocturnal?


I Write

It’s very simple, really.


I write fanfiction and original stories. A majority of what I do now is original, though.


In fanfiction, I’ve written for Artemis Fowl and Kyou Kara Maou.


I’m terrified of the Fowl Fans, though; they’re too intelligent for their own good. I’ve experienced heartache and heartache again writing for the community. After I while, I realized that it was time to pack up my bags and move to another fandom.


Kyou Kara Maou swept me up in their Third Season because of Saralegui the fact that they were back. So I’ve settled there.


Unfortunately, however, I find that I’ve ended up madly in love with admiring Saralegui, who is basically the scrappy of the whole show. And even worse, I only find myself inspired by him, and not any of the other characters.


As for my originals, I have plenty of small pieces I’ll probably post up sooner or later.


We’ll see.