i regret to inform you that i have vanished off the face of the earth.

there are no places to take this panic and let it funnel away into the air.
names i used to know, that i would rather not hear,
when used in conjuction,
can cause bile to rise up to my throat, along with
other things.
i am afraid that among these names,
mine will come into their conversation,
and i the link will be biting my tongue
or tripping down stairs
from being brought up in trips down memory lane
that the recollection of one
will tarnish those of the other.
i know i am paranoid for these assumptions,
but i don't like knowing that, other than my dealings with them,
those two names could have any association to each other.
oh how i wish i could erase those regrettable days.
i wish that i didn't care, and that nobody else would, about those things.
and so, for now,
i will be gone.

*************************************************************************************
recent events have led me to scream "bloody hell fuck fuck fuck shit!" and to try to disappear. hence, this.

scones, jam, and then some.

today was a good day.

i made scones and jam (peach mango!) for the first time, and it was a rather good attempt, if i say so myself. and i enjoyed every bit of it, as i was elbow deep in sticky dough, with flour on my face, and little red spots where little bits of boiling jam had splattered. even if i don't get things perfect the first time, somehow i look forward to doing it again, and making adjustments, and making my food better. i don't think i've ever felt that way about anything other than music before.

now i can't sleep because my stomach is SO FULL.

while i was busy in the kitchen, the dreams and stories that have been simmering in the back of my mind for months (years pa nga ata) were bubbling to the surface (which is why i got splattered with boiling jam in the first place). but the ideas are all separate and choppy, though i have a weird sense that they all belong in the same story.

so bear with me if the next few entries end up being bits and pieces of a story i haven't figured out how to tell yet.

reassurance. yeah, right.

sometimes, when i feel bad about the stupid mistakes i've made, i tell myself these weren't things i really meant, or i listen to I Never Really Loved You Anyway.

other times, i find myself wondering if i'm heartless. in order to reassure myself that i'm not, i tell myself i wouldn't have done/said that if i didn't mean it, or i shower-sing I Will Always Love You.

huh.

it's that face

the one i can instantly recognize but never seem to remember once i wake up. in another eerily real dream, where i could not only see and hear, but feel and smell and taste, there was that face. i always wake up, trying to find the name that went with the face, but there seems to be no record of the name in my memories. strange.

it is this person who always helps me hide from whatever it is that's chasing me, always across some perilous, physically-impossible-to-cross-alive bridge, always holding my hand. sometimes i think it's my soulmate, who i probably haven't met. sometimes i think it's god or jesus or mother earth or whoever. other times i think its my conscience. i tend to lean toward the first option, since there's something that tells me it isn't a part of me (so cross out the conscience), and it's not supernatural (so not whoever created the universe).

i know that face. this morning i woke up with the feeling that i had come across it before in real life. or has it appeared in my dreams so often that it feels that way?

the only thing i can remember about this mystery person is that he (yes, it's always a he) is tall. maybe it's my alter ego? tall. not female, can do stuff i can't, someone i know but don't actually know...?

my mind's been on this all day, hoping that when i sleep tonight i can go back to that place so that when i wake tomorrow i know who or what that face belongs to and this question will stop bothering me.

it never stops.

maybe i spend too much time locked up in my room alone. but it doesn't end, this fear of the world, of people. my parents are beginning to harass me into getting a new job; they keep sending me writing prospects and whatnot. what they don't understand is that i don't want to write like that. i cannot write like that. it's not because of any issues i may have encountered, or that i'm being picky. i'm saying i'm not a writer.

it is this realization that has caused me to uproot myself from the ok job i had going, more than anything. i write here, and on facebook every now and then, but these are entries only meant for myself. anybody who reads this won't really take too much stock from what i write here, because it's about me, and i'm just a regular person with a computer and an internet connection. but i cannot say things about what is unfamiliar to me, something i am uninterested in. i'm uncomfortable when my parents and their friends refer me to other people they know, when in reality they don't know what they're saying. they've never read my work. nobody does, other than you, every now and then. and even if you're the type to keep tabs once in a while, only i can see everything i've said. i write in code sometimes, or keep entries to myself.

so i'm not a writer. i'm just someone who can't keep her thoughts to herself.

but still the waves of worry and disappointment and constant "aren't you looking for a job yet?"s come and i don't know what to say or do about it.

and i'm so afraid. of what, i don't know.

the obituary writer

i would write for you
any time
any day
from the white noise in my head
and the silence of my night
with the quick scratching sounds of my pen
and the sure clicking of typing keys
after screams
a bang
a crackling blaze
a breath.

and only i would know
how it came to be
this writing
of sadness
and of pain
in the brief time it takes
when you pick up the paper
see the names on the dirty gray page
my words smudging the tips of your fingers.

it's time i start doing this again.

it's been so long since i wrote anything in a remotely creative fashion. this is a desperate (and rather sad) attempt to get that ball rolling.
***************************************************************************************************************
i'm so tired of your face
always stretched just so
in a smirk
never quite a smile
like you've got a secret i can
never know

and with that smug expression
you make a sound
in the back of your throat
like a clicking tongue
ticking
that makes my skin crawl
my blood race

so i'm sick of your face
as you count down to nothing
waving your hands
telling me
without really saying
that there's something
i must be doing

and you look down on me
smirking
clicking
waving
always looking down
on me from your spot on the wall.

- The Clock