90%

A friend, who had the knack of explaining the most beautiful things in life, said that humans only use ten percent of their brain. She said this like a normal fact. She also said that when humans use ninety (or a hundred?) percent of their brain, they can have the ability to resist hunger and thirst, and they can fly.

I said it’s bullshit, and whoever made that ass-fuck research was either high on weed or high on weed. So I told her I don’t buy it, though it’s pretty interesting to believe in it. It’s a human fantasy to fly, to escape. To see things the way birds do, because birds are free, because they can fly at their own volition, knifing the wind and the sun and the rain.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on August 6, 2010 at 9:03 am, filed under IRLs, Opinion, Pensive shits. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.

I’ll walk my thoughts with a cigarette

My readers,

Too much vignettes I’ve been writing lately. Probably because I’ve been into Livejournal these days (made it three years ago and it’s only now that I’ve revived it for very personal reasons). Been listening to a lot of Up Dharma Down these days. Depress the hell out of me by singing the lines from The World Is Our Playground And We Will Always Be Home: I swear I belong / this is where I belong.

Triggers have been sent. I just woke up one day not feeling comfortable with my roommates. Our thoughts clash, our philosophies in a state of derision (because derisive is such an awkward word). Problematic enough that I’ve been planning to move to another apartment next semester. Problematic enough that I reside in the apartment to sleep and wake up. I even forgot my keys a while ago. Signs are surfacing. I’m not buying this shit anymore. It’s probably just me overreading things but I’d love to stay in another apartment and do (cook, smoke) anything I want.

And then I badly need a housemate. Like Sheldon Cooper, I do have a single requirement I’d rather not discuss here for the fear that my roommates would read this. We should have the same interests. That’s it. I don’t care if he’s limp or, I dunno, messy or anything.

My poetry class have exhausted me last weekend. I had to write five Tagalog poems under a theme I proposed (that is: tragedies in everyday life, where images of calamities should and must surface throughout the poems as organic as possible, and that it is a commentary with the mundane). It actually made me think: tragedies occur in the everyday. I’m proud of doing poetry for a while but I fear I should stop it. It’s too heavy to handle, too emotional, even. It’s not definitely as light as fiction. I’ll post it some time.

To bombard you with the mundane:

1. My wallet was lost last Tuesday. Contains several twenties. My ATM closed last June so I don’t have to worry. Sadly, all my Cinemalaya tickets are there. Memories: receipts, ID pictures. A condom. More receipts. My fucking school ID. How lame.
2. I’ve quit alcohol (thank god it’s working for a month and a half now).
3. I’m addicted to something else.
4. Health is at the least of my priorities! That’s… surprising! I jogged once last week, once two weeks ago, and I feel like I don’t have the will to run. Who am I running for, anyway? Back then I run for myself, to trim the fats and everything, but now I’d rather run away from myself because OH FUCK I’M RANTING.
5. Been skinning my lips again. I’ve been working on it, but it’s a sign of insecurity. Problems. Spaced-out days. The dry weather. Overanalyzing things. Stigmas. Issues. I’m getting moody sometimes. This is bad. Lips tell a lot, really. Basically you just have to stare at my lips to see whether I still function. (But that’s awkward.)
6. This is one of the lowest points of my life, but this is Livejournal shit I’d rather not write about.
7. For three months I’ve only went home four times. Last time I went home I slept for twelve hours, and then another twelve hours, then another. Dad thought I died. Friends have been calling me, asking where the fuck are you? Oh, I overslept.
8. I have one mushy line in my poetry, and it says (translated from the Tagalog): I’d want to tattoo your name in my body / under my eyelids / at my shoulders / at my nipples. It’s funny. No, I made up that nipple part.
9. When you do poetry and you’re shallow as fuck (just like me), you’re either of these: depressed-slash-suicidal or wide-eyed-romantic. You can’t go in between. You’re just either of the two. Labeling poetry classmates as these is a very honest pastime.
10. My professor in prose said you have to lose faith in something to know if you do have the passion for it. After a brief discussion on metafiction, I winced. I’m starting to hate the world (specifically the contexts I’ve been noticing in the world, in the society).
11. When blog posts start in you, as in “you, who shakes the bed with me,” it all gets whiny and mushy at the same fucking time.
12. Man, did that make you laugh.
13. Cloud 9 is made of win because they put cereals on it nowadays.
14. Seriously, this is one of the lowest points in my life. Friends aren’t friends anymore. I couldn’t disclose everything with them. Now friends should understand you, in a way, but most of them? They don’t.
15. See how the “you” sounded pedagogic? And mushy?
16. I haven’t watched too much Big Bang Theory that much (a couple of times, really) because I might get addicted to it. I get addicted to easily.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on August 5, 2010 at 2:19 am, filed under IRLs, Last song syndromes, Life at UPLB, Pensive shits, Sentemotional, Slang and random, Stress ball narratives, Stupid, Vignettes. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.

Tragic #1

1. A shampoo bottle you’ve been squeezing for some time in the shower, but it couldn’t squirt enough amount.
2. A wallet missing because of a malfunctioning zipper.
3. Dad’s decision to sell the house for an apartment, because it’s just the two of us anyway. No sentimentality can move him: mango trees are a house for ants, and with those eucalyptus trees you even have to burn them first before they could even prove themselves useful. Those orchids should die (because Mom sprays it every morning, and he probably misses the scent and the dew of those mornings), the stairs are crumbling, and the garage isn’t even flat. The mahogany floors are creaking already. The sun couldn’t even go through that vacant spot that must be the roof.
4. Anxieties in life.
5. The text message you’d like to send but couldn’t.
6. If the days of the week congregate every Sunday, they must have been talking about their Saturdays first, before any other day. Saturday always have this limelight because it completes the week. When asked how’s your week, your immediate response shouldn’t be about your weekdays. Saturday nights have the lowest motel rates, the highest chance of knowing your zipper has been malfunctioning for some time now, the best night to drink a beer or two with friends, the only day worth seizing.
7. It’s funny how people have this penchant of associating meaning on the most random things. I didn’t intend my bullet about Saturday to be on the sixth number, but this is fiction, but I don’t care how fiction should look like. To make these numbers speak, disregard the succeeding numbers. That is, if you want to consider the first seven numbers as a device to wrap my week.
8. The names people give to each other, sometimes they’re diseases. Stay away from him. Stay away from that guy with a scar on his left face, he’s usually drunk. I’ve got to tell you, the man you’ve been talking for hours, he eats mushrooms. She looks like she had this monosodium glutamate overdose. Her father’s from rehab. Your ex fucked with you.
9. From now on, the library should draw out of you the loneliest memories ever. The outskirts are now lit with these jarring yellow streetlights, warming the night when it’s cold, it’s not even sensible.
10. What is fucking wrong when I say I smoke just about anything!
11. The feeling of wanting to pee and not peeing anything at all.
12. What if we boil those weekdays away, and instead just consider every day as Saturday? remarked Monday. Tuesday shrugged. Friday said it is not a good idea. Saturday wouldn’t be here if we were not here. Can we still apply causality in the congregation? Which day is first, anyway?
13. There will come a time that landmarks will deceive us, just like those days we thought we’re used to things.
14. If we drill a hole that would penetrate through the earth’s core to the other side, will we end up in Brazil?
15. Friday pressed that it is unfair! Saturday said it’s too risky, and that besides, people like Saturdays because of the competition against Sunday and the weekdays. Well, Sunday is too religious. Those weekdays are atheists.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on August 1, 2010 at 11:25 pm, filed under Pensive shits, Vignettes. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.