Tired and Exhausted.

Acerbic melodies. Melancholic solitude. Unrequited emotions.

These epitomized in a nutshell the trajectory of this entire blog. Angst-filled. Emotionally-driven. It stood witness to an entrenched paranoia that I have gone through for the past two years. It chronicled the intensity of each moment that outlined my very definition. Each moment, each defining milieu, was placed in adjacent with a unique kind of emotion, profound perhaps although intolerant. The fusion of each moment and each emotion were captured in words, filled with adjectives to bolster the description and complicated with adverbs to distil the narration. The purpose was to extract the exact emotion and to pin down the precise value (if there is) of each undulating experience. The purpose was to intensify the language without necessarily having to exaggerata each moment, each emotion.

But then, words and language still fall short of expectation. They cannot contain in themselves, the real and the extant derivation of the experiences. They remain incomplete and imperfect, though concedingly, not all irrelevant. They dither and deconstruct themselves in face of the unique varieties of a reader’s experience. They may touch and pierce into a portion of a reader’s channels of experiential memories and find relevance in it, but they are not adequate perhaps not even satisfactory to create some definitive parallelism.

The blogger, however, does not claim to generalize nor claim truths but only to make sense of the world, of his world, by putting into a concoction of words his emotions and experiences. He concedes that truths are relative and that subscription to such truths must be accompanied with responsibility, with utmost desire to face each destined consequence.

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Acerbic melodies. Melancholic solitude. Unrequited emotions.

These define in vivid details the remnants of this blog. And for the previous cycles of days and nights, I find myself weary. I can no longer write. I am torn by the thought of not having the capacity to turn each real moment into a captured transcription. I sulk in irritation over the thought that my interest in the writing craft began to loaf. I am beginning to waver.

But it dawned upon me that I have grown tired and exhausted of acerbic melodies, of melancholic solitude, and of unrequited emotions. I finally realized that I have been rambling almost the same pieces of emotion over and over again, and now they reverberate in a tone hazardous to the senses. I am already drained from ranting. The saturation point is already maximized.

I needed a shift of perspective and a lifting of spirit.

Blisters on my bare skin.

I was trying to muster everything, every bit of emotion that permeates into the deepest portion of my bare skin, and turn it into something. I want to vividly describe its most miniscule detail, and to turn it into something narrative. But over the past years, everything that i said and uttered, germinating from what perturbs my being were so intensely dark. Each virulent emotion epitomizes lucidly my state of melancholic solitude, my moments of anguish, instances of pain.

And I got blisters. More than blisters, in fact. But I have to deviate or else i might feel the pain in its most extreme level. Or perhaps I didn't deviate away from it at all. I just get used to it - to that every single pain than hovers ardently and profusely within my being.

Now my blisters already turned pale purple. Tomorrow it shall get darker. And every moment, it will get even more, until it gets back to normal, and until it withers away as if nothing happened. But the moments of anguish and pain the blister brought, shall remain imprinted in the innermost depths of my memory. The pain might be gone, but it shall continue to linger - on my thoughts, and on my bare skin.

Ill.

she is sick again,
and so am i.
she is physically ill,
i am emotionally uncontained.
it shatters me seeing her.
the more, knowing
i can do nothing.
and i hopelessly wonder:
what's in store for us?

Lone.

I am lonely.

And if the reason

is because i am

without you, let

it be so.

For what use

is it being with

you, when to

be with you

is without you?

No. It is

not because of you.

Nor the thought

of you, in

that solitary hiatus,

Like the Moon,

bright in the darkness

of the night.

I am lonely.

Not even for

The feelings I

am not quite certain,

like the last

leaf to fall

before Winter breaks.

I am lonely.

And to be so

is not just

being without you.

Many a reason,

That even the

Mind cannot fathom, like

a Wanderer ensnared

along some crossroad.

I am lonely,

Thus, with or

without you. Since

being with you

or otherwise, is

being with myself,

alone.

Wordplay.

“Batid ko ang mga salita bago mo pa man ito ihayag. Saklaw ko ang damdaming nais mong usalin, ang mga bagay na nais mong iparating. Sa bawat salita, hawiin mo ang damdaming nanabik.”

Word churns around my head. They call upon me to make use of them and to make sense of them. Alone they can never stand. But when each word in isolation is brought to fuse creatively with another, they convey a new thought, perhaps more particular and interesting idea.

But words dither. Or is it the Languid who dawdles? It is the Incandescence that resolves for the manipulation of words, for the captivation of language into a realm comprehensible to the human intellect. Then the words suddenly make sense. They signify more than what they are supposed to simply mean. But where do they start? Isn’t it that words are scratched from ideas, and ideas evolve from words?

It is the Languid that decides for the destiny of the ideas into words structured in a simple or complex concoction and contained in a concrete form. In moments of lethargy, and perhaps under-inspiration, the Languid falters. Sadly, what could have been an interesting offshoot of a captured moment in words are left in an eternal space left for the usurpation of the blackhole.