Into The Future

STS was a breath of fresh air after all the prerequisite subjects and the GEs that seek attention like major subjects. Though full of papers, I find myself actually looking deeper into technology and myself, and how I have greatly changed over the years growing up with the internet. And of everything I have learned, I loved the topic of what’s coming next in a few years, decades, millennia.

The mere fact that people can imagine things way before their time could ever have the technologies to make them projects the possibility of the impossible. How anything that does not disprove any known laws of physics could still hold water no matter how absurd it is today. How a possible discovery could question formulations that stood as bases for nearly everything. The possibilities are endless to a point that whatever we can conjure up in our heads could actually be true. Even fairytales could have been parallel universes that have reached our minds that have detached from the frequency of the earth to tap the frequency of a “fork in a river”. How there could have been alternate realities of what could have happened. The “what ifs” in life that haunt you every single day is just another world away. The day you should’ve said yes when he proposed. They day you should’ve showed up on a date. The day you should’ve kept your urges jarred. The day you should’ve told the person how you really felt. The day you should’ve gone home to spend a Father’s day with your dad. The fact is, I could go on and tell what people could’ve had or lost if only they knew the consequences. What only limits us is the level of advancement the world is in now to live in what we dream of.

And on the same day, the last day, a golden nugget of inspiration has been dropped to signify what it really is to live and to be educated. “Slope of a line is rise over run. So Rise after every fall rather than run from every challenge.” (Espinosa, 2012)

I guess anything is possible when we try. If we only tried.

This comes from my paper on STS about my favorite topic. Thank you. :D

Broken Houses

Instead of writing a story for tonight, I decided to introduce you to some artistic photography. Don't worry! I might write one on the road and put it here for your viewing pleasure tomorrow. Going back to the art of the photograph, which is usually underrated due to the lack of skill it needs relative to painting and sculpting. But then again, a photography, like most visual art helps us see something that we might have missed or something that we bore ourselves looking at but now in a different angle or light. Hence, I present to you Broken Houses by Ofra Lapid.

Well, from what I have read, the artist starts taking photos of houses that have been abandoned and left to rot by humans, made models out of them, and photographed them again on a blank background. The result? An eerie yet homey effect; a reflection of abandonment of a person's dreams, lives, memories and regrets; and a reminder of what's left from moving on. The things you own, owned, keep, and kept is a fragment of who you are. And I myself could't come to the thought of saying goodbye to anything, thus turning me into a hoarder of memories I try to hard to not let slip away. (Note: A ticket for Enchanted Kingdom for the day I unexpectedly saw someone I know is now a bookmark to an anthology I turn to for inspiration.)

See more of the collection here. Enjoy!

Rectangular Frames

We need to talk.

I just entered the house, opened a tub of ice cream and curled up on the left side of the couch.

Yes, I'm crying. No, don't come here to my side and wipe them. I always get to see just a glimmer of your eyes. Let me see them. Let me take your glasses off. Let me see them. I just love how big and brown they are. Yes, I'm sure that you don't need to wipe them off.

You know, I know you don't love me. I could see that. Yes, in your eyes. I could also feel you drift further away, not like you were close to begin with. But, I do know you try. You try so hard to find it in you. But you don't. You never call to check up on me. You never finish the meals I made you. Stop! Let me finish. You never tell me that you love me when no one is around. You don't touch the cupcakes I make, they're still in the fridge. You never reply when I text. You never came to events I wanted you to. But in all those things, I try to not mind. I know how stubborn you are. I know how lazy you get to. And somehow, that's why I love you.

You can't say that I never tried. I always did. I try to help you get closer to me, so that it would be easier for the both of us. I gave you everything I can, with enough space. I never got jealous, because you'd complain when I do. I wanted to give you freedom from all my pains. That's why I try to resolve my own problems because I didn't want to add to yours.

I know it's hard for you to hear what I'm saying. But you should know that it's even harder for me. I can't tell you how much it just pains me to see you everyday hoping and praying you'd fall in love with me again - if you did love me before. The most painful part in whatever it is between us is hoping, not the waiting. I could wait forever for you to love me when I do know you will, but I couldn't hope that long when my soul just wears thin knowing you won't.

I got my bags packed and the taxi would be coming soon. Please, don't stop me. I love you so much. You were my world. You fueled all the wonderful things that I could do now. But could never see how you look at me through these glasses. I could trade a day in my life to just see and feel what you feel when you see me, but then again, I already know how that feels. And it's killing me. You can have these back.

I love you so much. So much.

And I bit my lip to refrain from crying. 15 minutes until the cab comes.


I hear keys and footsteps.


"Hello, dear! Sorry I'm late. The traffic was a killer," he says. "Oh, you have ice cream. Whatever for?"


We need to talk.

I see your glasses. 

I wonder what your eyes see. 

I wonder what they look like. 

I wonder if you look at me.

(4:49 04/06/12 Computer Room)

Ketchup Packet

My heart is a ketchup packet,

Vulnerable at the perforated edges.

Outside, it's plastic and metal;

Inside, it's like everyone else's.

I'd rather you tear it up

At it's zigzag seams.

For you to use it up is what 

The red within me dreams.

Oh, to die for a cause

By giving my all.

To risk something from a short life

All for another's call.

I try to present myself better

But no one looks for packets anymore.

How could I compete

When the whole world just wants more?

So on the table I'll wait

Until you find what you need.

But I can't be here forever

When life tells me to proceed.

(8:32 PM, 03/30/12, Computer Room at Home)

[Photo]

The Afterparty

I found myself walking along a nearly empty avenue, given that the cars were only coming and going by at some rate of 1 car for every 5 minutes. There wasn't much people by the road at 7 in the morning of a Sunday, compared to those of the weekdays - and it was a good thing, given my condition.

It was the afterparty. No, not the afterparty party. It's what happens next to the main event and no one moves to another location to prolong the boozefest. I was the scene of a 'mess', and I could't put 'Hot' in front of the word. It was the aftermath of a party, now described more aptly.

I have finally theorized that "The aftermath of a party is the antithesis of it's glamour." And even I couldn't escape it. I was finally at at point where I leave someone else's condo (where I just slept over, not humped over) with a very desperate attempt of making a new look out of last night's formalwear to trick the guards I lived there without them questioning if I stole or killed anything, or anybody - which I'd stress out did not. And I tell you, going out with what you wore the evening before was like any late fashion get up, so last night/season/year.

But then again, the ugliest part was not getting out - it was walking back to your place that made me look and feel like a total mess, even when i only drank a glass of blue liquor. A failed hand-combed beadhair and an untucked shirt with unbuckled shoes carrying nothing but pastel colored loot boxes and a memorabilia photo. And the sad part is: I was, while looking like a sad excuse for a partygoer, singing in the light wind to Adele.

Which made me realize: Why does life suck when I have done nothing wrong?

Or maybe it was my heart last night seeing people - yes, plural - I really like but couldn't tell what I was feeling. Or the feeling of losing a pen and a necktie. Or the feeling of getting a hug that would just release hormones all around the room. Or maybe it was me, walking alone along the street to my place feeling like punching Adele in the face for the song-inflicted heartache.

One more block to go before I get to my bed, I'd really like to sleep this one out. Maybe my heart is like my stomach, who forgets being hungry every time I wake up.

Bound to You

Bound To You

Christina Aguilera

There is something very eerily beautiful with Bound To You. The richness of Aguilera's voice to the sincerity of each word in the composition. And by some things I could not grasp, I fell in love with this song above all others from the same movie.

Starting with the composition, I could really tell the honesty of every word. The emotions of a woman too strong for too long, needing nobody, now finding herself falling for someone for the first time. The fears of a first love and the greatness of giving in to it, forgetting your past, forgetting your fears and diving in head first to the murky future, with your love leading you and guiding you through. This battle of letting go and clamming up is a timeless beauty.

Then with the sounds, Aguilera's voice is perfect for this song, nearly tailor-made for her and her now-whole and rich tone. Each word and note comes out clean and heavy, thus making you feel her pain and struggle, which is furthermore expressed in her strains in her high notes. In the song you don't hear much layers in the vocals, just a few background vocals here and there, but there is none to be found post-bridge, unlike most pop songs, thus focusing on the seriousness and singularity of the ballad. The composition of the instrumental is phenomenal, with its chorus cadences, and an after chorus return to the simple beat, a classic Sia work of art. By doing this, it makes you pay more attention to the words better with the simple violin-accompanied piano, and come the chorus again, there is a surge of complexity which continues to the bridge and the final chorus which finishes off beautifully with an note signifying an enlightenment.

The music video come from the movie itself, which is a beautiful production, a green draping dress and a white flower in bunched up hair, with a light behind and just you on stage - one of Xtina's finest looks.

End note: Let it go. Let it go. Beautiful. Give in. Let it go.

Jo

I started staring at the wall of my room for nearly an hour. It seems more exciting than any other shit that my friends and family have planned for the day. I hate them troubling me with their nonsense and crying over with their petty things and getting all fuelled up for the corniest of things. I hate them. They were just there for me. Not me for them, them for me. So I had to please them in somehow to maintain the connection, making sure that when I need them, I was there.

I shut the blinds. The sun stinks. My room was painted black, like most of the things I own. My nails chipped, but still black. My hair, black as I have remembered. Even my books were black even in the inside. Sometimes, I’d char my Barbie dolls to make them black, not in the ethnical way though. Just black. That dark feeling of greatness and power.

It was already 8 in the morning. Damn the blinding light. I had to go to school, and do shit. To please my parents and even my snotty friends. I know I was late. But, hey, better late than never, right? So I stopped staring at that amazing wall and got up so that I could “get a life”, well, that’s what they say. I had already bathed yesterday, so what was left was a shower. I undressed and just let the cold water just flow against my body. Yes. The cold. It just feels so good. I got out of the shower, dried and proceeded to my closet. Black top, black skirt, fishnet stockings, since I’m feeling hardcore, black peep-toe shoes. Boudoir time. Eyeliner on my whole eyelid, my undereyes. Mascara. Wait, is that a pimple? Concealer. I hate being a girl. I forgot my deo. Deo done. Out of the room I go, for breakfast, some scolding and even meeting up with them shitheads.

Back from school. Flung my bag to the floor, nearly broke my mirror. Oh well. Still safe. I went directly to the bed. I sat there and instantly stared at the wall again. I just can’t help fascinating it. It was blank. It was black. It was perfect. And I found something new every single day I stared. Yesterday, there was a red bug crawling from corner to corner, I wanted to kill it, but I was too bored. The day before, I found a row of ants. I confused their paths by smudging on them. The day before that, more light shined on it, and I quickly shut the blinds. But today was different. There was a chip off the paint. It was weird yet thrilling, sucky yet curiosity-inducing. So I peeled it. It was too blind to see the color behind the rich blackness of new coat under that few lighting. So I dared to open the blinds, and nearly got blinded. Well, that stinks. But then I fancied the weirdness of that small chip to even get bothered by it. So I went back to that chip on the wall and started peeling further. It showed an ugly shade of red. It was too faded to even deserve the name Red. It was ugly. But I still peeled off the new paint off the wall, because I had nothing else to do. Well, nothing else important to do. Ughh. All right. Nothing else to do that was not even the least bit boring. Even in the face of boredom, the ugliest of things get amusing. And that shade of red was surely too amusing. I peeled too much that I conjured up the weirdest and nerdiest of thoughts – something I hated to do most of all. Sometimes, I even forget why I do that nearly every time. But even still, I was not fazed with the least bit of worry of turning to the things I fear most: Goody-Two-Shoed-Nerds. I kept on. Wow. America. A molecule of benzene. An illustration of a cross section of an Amphioxus. Shit. I got to stop thinking this crap.

Mom called me to dinner. I shouted “I’m busy, Mom. Get lost!” She’s really annoying. I never even planned eating dinner at all today. Sometimes, she even makes the crappiest noises at night in her room. I can’t even sleep or stare well with all that racket. Now that dinner has been cancelled, I kept on peeling my worries away with this nearly ugly wall. Yuck. It’s soooo…light red. It’s disgusting. And it’s creeping me out. It was half past 7 and I turned around. All that chips of paint felt good. I wanted more, and what I saw, was more, much much more. And I started to work, quickly. With all thingamajigs I can find. Nearly rusty nails to impale the black paint, my ID for a scraper, and my arms for the pulling. Sometimes, I get enough paint to fully cover my notebooks. I would’ve but I was to immersed with this paint. I had gone used to the dullness of the color underneath. It reminded me of stuffed animals, the cute ones – not the ones I normally hold, the ones drenched in formalin – but the type you pull their heads off. It sucked. But the action was so cool.

I could not remember much of what I did when I woke up. It was already a quarter to one. I fell asleep just in time when I was done with the last piece off my wall. So I quickly got up, shook off the chips on nearly everything in my body. And stared at the mess I made.

I was at a loss. I could no longer distinguish my room. The only reminders were the patches of black on a lightest pink wall. It was filthy. It was nice. It was shitty. It was comforting. What the hell is happening to me? What is this? How do I feel foreign and at the same time at home in this cell that bore no resemblance to who I am? I tried to brace the wall. Felt it. It’s color’s name at the tip of my tongue. It was…still disgusting, yet I felt myself in it. I tried to throw the paint chips on the floor to the wall, hoping that it would stick. Nothing worked. I didn’t feel any good in this. I felt as if I had lived here before but I did not. I wasn’t this. I looked at my hands, my nails were chipped because of all this chipping paint. I rushed to my bathroom, even my hair wasn’t that black. My roots were showing. I had brown hair. I was a brunette. I was pulling my hair all of a sudden to really check if it was mine. My hand accidentally swooped to my face, smudging my makeup. I saw my fair lids. I saw my amber eyes. I saw my pinkish face, beneath all the light shaded concealers. And I even saw that I was crying, mudded rivers through my face, ruining my mascara. I was a woman. And I felt emotions.

Looking like a mess, I went back to my bed, pushed it away in all my agony and I wept further on the floor. I just let myself go and lay suddenly, hoping that a bump in the head would save me from this insanity and loss. And I did bump into something. It was a notebook.

It was no mere notebook. It was a diary of some kid named Jo. I must have stolen it some time ago. I looked through her stuff and saw notes and pictures. It was strange. She was just like me. She had a pink room. Pink. So that was the name of that shade. Pink. And I like it. Then I came across this.

Dear Jo,
About to have a brain surgery today. Doctor’s say that it’s scary and all, but I will take it, to spend more time with mom. If I die now, who would take care of her? I would rather take the risk to be with her. Her smile, her laugh, her voice, her cooking. I love her so much, Jo. And I’d like to wake up tomorrow morning to see her smiling and holding my hand, and hugging me, and taking me home waiting for me to get even better. Remember all the fun you had together, studying. She was patient with you. She took time in waiting for you to get it right. She waited everyday at the door getting worried you won’t come back. She cooked vegetables every day, even though you hated it because she wants you to be healthy. She worked hard, Jo. For you. Because she loves you. Remember this after the surgery. It’s all going to be ok.
Lovelots,
Jo

I was dumbstricken. I didn’t know. It was as if I had been living a lie the past five years. And I heard that sound again. It was wailing. It was such a sad sound. It was off key and muffled by all the tears. It was Mom. So I got up and went to her room, hugged her and said…

“I love you, Mom. I remember.”

Everything changed after that.

Falling in Love

"That is not flying. It's falling - with style." - Woody, Toy Story

We all have felt falling, sinking helplessly to gravity. We have felt the rush of adrenaline through our veins, and in some sadistic little way, have liked every bit of it. And we all have had scars that we still can remember today, phantom hurts and bandages.

We are Dionysian in nature. We have destructive tendencies of liking the hurt in some way or another. We cannot deny this fact that we get drawn to heavy conflicts of life, regardless of what it is. Watching the scariest and goriest bits in a movie though we ourselves know that it is bound to happen and the scene will haunt us before we go to sleep or enter the bathroom. We tend to miss the feeling of pain in any form, that we say "I forgot how it felt like to..". And at times, we tend to repeat these things too much, that without them, there is nothing to base some things from, like fights in relationships that we see as the pillars of being together. But this insanity of self-destruction is not completely ugly, and at times would seem beautiful in itself.

We are happily in doom. It is inevitable that without these phenomena to spice up your life, it would just be some repetitive motion of happiness and surrealism. We tend to feel more human with each imperfection and this is how we see the light at the end of every tunnel. We find the things that make us happy even if it kills us, to stand on our perceptions and beliefs that is unwise, unsavory, unlikely, un-[any negative adjective] to others but we see as the truth of ourselves and point of our existence.

This is why I think we use the term of "falling in love".

We fall in love because of the seemingly never ending feeling of sinking, something that we do not choose ourselves, hence others saying "I don't know why, I just do." But why should mere man choose to fall for something called love? Is it merely because of the helplessness and the inability to overcome this feeling once it has started? Then why not "Being dragged by two muscular bouncers into love"? And here I try to justify with our nature. To like the feeling, even though there is no possible force for us to stop it. To accept the fate of endless freefall because of tripping in some way into a bottomless pit. This debauchery of intensity of helplessness is not mere negativity because for one thing, we like the feeling of being in love.

We have liked this epic feeling for too long that nearly the economy has revolved around this trait of the human character. We see lots and other products being sold by strengthening beliefs of a complete familial love, incorporating families to introduce unconsciously the feeling that by buying these items, we gain the perfect relationship. Even the music, literature and film industries have made a point of using the terms of love to hook their consumers of this feeling that people desire in different forms around the same subject. For C.S. Lewis in "The Screwtape Letters" have said that we are men who strive for something new every time, but we tend to long of the feeling of repetition. The never ending cycle of different things, the Seasons, the months, and now Chick flicks, Romance novels and Heartbreak songs (since even the lack of love pertains to love itself).

Even in my Dionysian nature, I have felt like falling is itself flying. No bird nor squirrel has ever tried to glide through the air without opening its wings (or skin flaps, whatever) and jumping off that branch without fear of hitting the ground below. To fear for something we can overcome is a nuisance to what we can do to become better and feel better about ourselves. Falling is by no means a bad thing (except if used in the sense of suicide). Falling is a learning process, to embrace what we are and what we feel to overcome fear and fault to be happy for once even if the process hurts us the most. So even falling can be mistaken for flying - and even flying for falling. Falling in love.

And here I wish to fly.

is there anybody here who would listen to me?.. (from my stories circa 2010)

a lot of people get upset. they handle it in different ways. some people talk to other people about it. others eat their feelings out. others do both simultaneously. while some, run to a special place and sulk and cry. the bathroom, the bedroom, the garden. i wish i could run to those places when i'm upset, but i couldn't there are no rooms in my place. everyone must do it in front of everybody. so when i cry, the whole nation here sees it, but they don't care. they always don't. they're busy. so busy to see me. busy of what you may ask? busy of their own problems. it's so mean that they can't actually feel my feelings mutually but hey, the things they go through are bigger distractions. so i cry. warm tears in my eyes. holding a teddy bear who i wish feels sympathy for me.

i'm six, you know. my age, that is. sheila's my real name, but people call me det. or is it spelled with a 'b'? i dunno. i forgot. but it sounds the same.. i usually wear white here. too much bleach i guess, or is it because we live so high up that the sun seems so reachable? i dunno. i guess people never bothered dyeing their clothes here. it may seem to everyone that i'm happy up here but i'm not.i stay with my grandpa and grandma. nice old people, but i'm still not happy. they are kinda rich. they give me whatever i want. but it makes me feel so lonely at times. all those stuff they give you. i never bothered making friends here. but i do see a nice guy there nearby. he's sweet and cute. i kinda like him. he's about my age. but even with friends around i'm still lonely.

why am i lonely, you ask? the fact is, i really don't know. it seems like i have it all here. but something is amiss. solidity? humaniity? color?

you ask me about my parents? oh, they're down there, working to earn a living. 

i wish i was living.


Note: By that time, I liked not caring about capital letters. Enjoy!

The Heart

(c) Chezka Sunit
An Interpretation of The Only Exception by Paramore

In a world where names meant no meaning, I'd like to think of a house that Love built. A house of blood, sweat and tears. A house of his own.

It was a dream house. A place that would put you in a state of trance and plan what lies ahead in your life. A white house with picket fences with blue doors and window panes and, most especially, a porch. Everything there was rested on a green meadow where gentle winds will blow.

As Love sat on a chair in his porch one Sunday morning, he felt as if something was missing and gazed into the vastness beyond the field with lips partly parted and gentle eyes both longing for nothing that he knew of. And when he has come back from his thoughts, he reached for his cup of coffee, sweet but with no creamer, he extended his strong yet careful arm to the table beside him and calmly neared his cup to his mouth.

That night, he tossed and turned in his own bed, thinking of nothing but what was missing. He was self-sufficient, he believed, so the house must be lacking. Not him, but the house. And all that he thought of the rest of the night was a garden.

He dreaded that a garden was amiss but he did not have the talent to have one, for you see, that field of keeping things alive was not his forte, but he was one who was willing to try, and so asked a woman to help him filling up the cavities of his beliefs.

She was Fear. She shyly walked up to the land behind the house and closed her eyes to hear the grass grow. After she was done, she went back to Love, who was waiting by the back door, and accepted the offer. For days she tended the grounds like it was her own - seeding, watering, shoveling. And every single day of her job, Love was watching her. He noticed her uncanny demise, for she always dreaded about everything. which made her perfect for the job. Because of this, she was always prepared for the worst. She was careful and diligent because she wouldn't want to harm the plants. And then he saw her eyes.

There was something frightening about those green eyes which matched her pink-pale skin perfectly. They showed such remorse (though for no reason), hurt, pain, depth, mystery. Things men were afraid to grasp, she shown through her eyes. There was an endless void in them; It's as if if you came any closer, you'd fall endlessly with nothing to catch you - not even a bottom. There were faintly dark furrows beneath her eyes that strengthened the power of what they possessed. And yet, he understood.

Like most stories, they fell in love sooner than later. For you see, he knew something others couldn't about her: that out of the hurt and disturbances of her soul, she exudes care and carefulness. This, he believed, was his choice for a woman who'd be his wife. And out of this dogma, they had twin boys: Apathy and Jealousy. Apathy was never receptive to any emotion. He would not care, nor flinch, nor worry, nor feel. His parents have given him everything, yet he would still not respond. Jealousy was the spotlight person. He'd always asked for attention. Much to his dismay, given his brother's condition, he lacked of it and the deficiency would tear him down every night but would make him still thirsty and greedy for his parent's affection (though they have given him plenty).

The brothers had separate Identities. It were as if Apathy had the fear of love while Jealousy had the fear of love lost.

The parents however would bicker and shout because Fear could not accept that she was failing as a mother, failing to provide and failing to care. She could not cope though she was always calmed by looking at him. His stern hazel eyes that would watch her with no anger, no hate, no fire. A look that would make her melt and complete, masking all that has been in her past unfolded by her eyes. But no. She wouldn't give in. Not this time, the nth of times that could have ended in a bed wearing next to nothing. Her psyche was taking control and she's breaking down and running away. For good? We won't know. He tried to stop her, you know. He held her in his arms, tried to wrap himself and give his all in just a hug and buried his face in her brown hair, hot tears down his face.

The next thing we knew, she's on a train leading to nowhere, speaking to someone inside of her, crying and calling her "Hope".

Hope is the only good thing out of fear and love.