Christmas this year feels machinated.

Everything moves like clockwork — “in the spirit of giving”; gifts; shopping; more gifts; presents wrapped crudely with pink wrapping paper plastered with hearts; the shrill, unforgiving sounds of carolers bombarding lawnyards of singing praises to a Jesus/God I have problems with; more shopping; the plastic ads screaming “ohey, it’s Christmas!!! 50% sales!!?!?!! buy more!”; consumption, indulgence, luxury; plastic spray painted in silver and gold.

Christmas approximates itself in a tacky performance, I don’t want to indulge in.
When did I come to hate Christmas so?

I would blame it
on daylight growing thin
(if I could)

(But the world fleeting
ephemeral beauty
sunsets tread on water)

and days hummed
are the mind’s dissolution
to a weary loss

We all bathe in half-truths anyway–
swimming in a murky sea

So when the time comes and we’re all found out, there really is no reason to be upset. We’re fucked one way or another. Disappointment comes in the fact that you were not wary, that you were not constantly nitpicking on the details with what little light you have underneath it all.

I lie to myself to be fair,
I am afraid of my own thoughts.

live to lie, lie to live

There is wonder–

if the sky gets worn
from changing hues;
if the sun fazes
from its temporal stage
of dawn to dusk
Words resigned to code
spoken in binary
the soldiers cry
it only hurts when
a loved one dies.
It’s a wonder
if pursuits are battles,
if masked-worn faces
become faces-worn masks.
To an unending masquerade
of building apathy.

Obligatory New Year’s post

I don’t exactly have prose or poetry for this post; just thoughts, mostly.

Two-thousand and ten. 2010.

Where do I even begin?

The year brought about a lot of change – big, small, good and bad.

Quoting Heraclitus:

“Nothing endures but change.” (or a more popular variant, “the only constant is change”)

I’m promising myself a better year to come.

I saw two dragonflies out in my backyard today. They were doing a pretty little dance. Both were red.

Perhaps they were lovers in a past life. If I had stayed long enough, maybe I could have imagined a scenario; but I didn’t.

How long do dances last anyway?

… and sitting in a listless torpor, just waiting.


I wrote this at 3.20a.m., May 16, last year.

“We are nothing but small scales, like that on fish and reptiles; eventually flaking away. The continuity of our emotions; the fibers of our being, into the ebb and flow of the universe. All of these amounts to nothing in the end. We are all the same, no differentiation. The meaning of our existence, lost in the dead beats of our life. Impermanence is a fact.”

I can’t remember how I came about with that… It’s a weird feeling browsing through old writings. I think much of how I write — tone and shiz — has changed, even within this short a span of time. I sort of wonder if I still think the same way as I did when I wrote that. It’s hard to judge now.


Yesterday was vaguely strange.

My friend and I unintentionally saw this lady bug circling the fishes bowl. It was speckled yellow. It circled continuously for goodness how long because an hour plus later it was still there… circling. We watched TV for another couple of hours, and we went to check on that said lady bug — by this time, it had dropped inside the bowl and was floating on top of the water.

Thought about how we’re always fumbling and making circles, in our own world(s). It’s not like any of us know what the hell we’re doing anyway.

In the quiet

Words don’t always come out like you want them too. But I suppose everyone has this figured out by now.

Even words directed to yourself. We lay in the dark room and we think to ourselves and we tell ourselves things in slow drawls and whispers. But at times, it’s not like one can truly believe them because sometimes those things you tell yourself at night are just that — slow drawls and whispers, repeated long enough just for you to believe them in that momentary lapse between consciousness and unconsciousness. Words that don’t mean enough to make it through the day where reality happens. It’s an intricate shadow play — between superfluous light from street lamps and passing cars shining in and getting cut through by soft curtain movements.

Funny how those nights are the nights when we feel most vividly our emotions that preside, believing so fully in that authority.

Funny how we always want those nights to last longer than they really should, hoping maybe, just maybe those words with “meaning” will spill through when everything’s awake again.

They always say that the night holds secrets. Silent thoughts that only surface for him to grasp, to hold it inside of him. It’ll be nice to think that those words aren’t just for us but for him as well. Everything is so easy then to let go, before your vulnerability. ¬†Knowing that your secret’s — the words you tell yourself — are safe.

Everything will be alright.