LIGHT/WEIGHT

We are responsible for our own actions, no one else's.
We owe nothing to anyone
Our feelings and thoughts are our own, and we have no right or obligation whatsoever to impose upon anyone the consequences of such.

Ah, such poor justifications for your fear.
How can you not feel responsible when you hold the world of a person in your hands?
How can you lack the heart for those who offer theirs to you?
How can you be devoid of compassion for those who strip their souls bare before you, and hope that you feel what they feel?

Kundera is crying out now, saying that yes, we are responsible. And that the burden is not something we should refuse or ignore. Doing so would only destroy our very essence as human beings, and leave us with a hollow shell, floating about in utter pointlessness.

---

ALL I WANT
Toad the Wet Sprocket


Nothing's so loud
As hearing when we lie
The truth is not kind
And you've said neither am i
But the air outside so soft is saying everything
Everything

All I want is to feel this way
To be this close, to feel the same
All I want is to feel this way
The evening speaks, I feel it say...

Nothing's so cold
As closing the heart when all we need
Is to free the soul
But we wouldn't be that brave I know
And the air outside so soft, confessing everything
Everything

And it won't matter now
Whatever happens to me
Though the air speaks of all we'll never be
It won't trouble me

And it feels so close
Let it take me in
Let it hold me so
I can feel it say...

LABO P'RE

I used to write poetry. Lots. Back when I was not old in spirit, I guess. But maybe that's no excuse.

I'd like to write one now. I'd like to read it out loud to someone, anyone. I miss lighting candles in the dark and communing with my titas and Neruda. I miss scribbling verses on the back pages of my notebooks, and hiding them in drawers so my mother won't be able to read them.

"Do not read poems to those who don't understand poetry," or something like that, said Greene in 48 Laws of Power. Sigh. I don't even know if I write good poetry.

Have I become a sad person? Not melancholy, not troubled or frustrated, but sad in a dull, plain way. I'd hate to think so. Especially now. Because Im quite happy now.

Langya Lara labo mo.

And why do I write such curt sentences? Is that a good thing or not?

Shit I don't make much sense, do I?

BACK

More than a month without blogging. Aaack!

It's past five and I'm killing time before class starts. First class of the semester. Missed the first meeting, though; I was hidden somewhere in the mountains of the north for four days, teaching students how to fly like geese. Those who don't understand, sorry, hindi kayo AYOS, hehe.

Hmm, what to write? Event? Emotion? Thought? Nothing, really. I just like the feel of the keyboards when I tap them. And the clicking sound it quite comforting.

No, actually, I do have something to say. I just don't know what, exactly. Thoughts and emotions and events and an ocean of other stuff that I can't seem to make out in my head. To say I am at a crossroads, or confused, or mixed up, is superfluous. I am always like this. Hehe. It's a wonder I come up with coheremt sentences, if only to explain my utter incoherence.

But I am trying to get better at this introspection/self-discovery bit. I thought I had it down pat before. Turns out I know myself like I know ants. I don't.

Sigh.

Welcome, AY 2005-2006.