My passion for language is one thing that I have always been vocal about. But sometimes, I feel so betrayed by it; that inspite of these words, I can never really tell you how I feel today, or how much I want to know about death, or why I think anger is necessary for one to keep on living.

It's funny how we develop associations for things we love so that no one can really catch on that we keep on talking about one and the same thing.

I am existing in a world that thrives on codes.

This morning, I plucked out a single white hairstrand from my head. Then I think, who first thought of the word forever? He must've been the most hopeful person that ever lived.

That ever lived.

And now that person is gone and no one knows about the fact that he was the one who was able to name the first real lie. This, I think is one of the world's greatest tragedies.

At this very minute, someone
has decided to die of loneliness. On his last day on
earth, he reads his favorite book and looks up at the sky
when he reaches the line that has haunted him
from the first. I won't tell you what it is because
the tree outside his front door has promised to keep
it a secret for him. At noon, he walks two whole
blocks just to find out what is happening in the world. The
newspaper man tells him what he already knows, Nothing
is new. Nothing is happening. His cat sleeps on
his cold kitchen floor and for the first time, he wonders
if it dreams of him. What color am I in animals' dreams? A
useless query but still, someone somewhere would
pay for that kind of information.
Then he sits on a stool and waits for a god. Aloud, he says, I'd like
to know you better now before I change my mind. But a minute passes
and the truth gently blows on his forehead. He believes
it is time for a kiss. He calls up someone
he barely knows and asks for it. She says she'd like to oblige
but she's too busy making tinola for a family dinner that night.
He, of course, tells her about this recurring dream he has about fishes.
The yellow fish, the one with the smallest fins,
says that it knows the code of a kiss. Why do they know this, he
asks the woman. She tells
him, I'm busy and shuts off the world.
How do they know this, he repeats to an empty room and it's the
afternoon light, this time, that reminds him of the hour, how
it would be better used if he breathed in a little less of faith.

So far, I've only had my heart broken three times. The first time was when my mother died; the second time was when I first discovered that a person whom I loved deeply loved someone else; and the third was today. You'd think that having survived the loss of both my parents and bankruptcy and finally having severed existing ties with blood relatives would make me more adept at losing. You'd think that the sting would gradually change into something more forgiving, less harsh. But today I was reminded that when you lose, it always brings with it a new hurt, so different from all the ones that came before that you'd make yourself believe that it's the first time something so integral has been snatched from you. But after going through the motions of a day that never really ends, you sit and stare out the window and say So that really happened. Jesus Christ.

Which brings to mind one of my favorite childhood memories. My father, who was a crybaby himself, never allowed us to give in to indulgent bouts of tears. He read somewhere that real sadness lasts for approximately 21 minutes. So he literally trained us to cry for a full 21 minutes and after the minutes were up, he'd pat us gently on our backs and would say That's that for now.

So imagine the concentration that I exerted in staring at our office clock for 21 minutes. And all I wanted was to keep from crying. And I did.

It has been roughly 9 hours and so-so minutes since I heard the news. Forgive me, but I still feel so out of sorts. Nobody died, not really. I just feel, I dunno. Disconnected, somewhat. Honestly, what devastates me most is the realization that I do have a very deep need to be appreciated and accepted. This need is something that I've almost always denied in the past. I mean, how many times have I crowed about my independence, my solitary interests, my private faiths? You must know this about me. Then comes this ruinous affair and I just don't know what's what, really.

But inspite of the disappointment and frustration, I am not kneeling. I will keep on, still and always, simply because I have to. Because I am in love with silence's more interesting twin, with the stops and starts between definitions, with the mystery and salvation in the words that exist to defy all these blank spaces.

I am the invention of the people who have loved me.

I've been caught up in a deleting frenzy since Friday. For once, in the three years that I've been working, I cleaned out my office mailbox. I deleted unnecessary mail in all my email accounts. I've even deleted some entries here that made me go Ick when I read them earlier.

Out with the old indeed.

Truth be told, I should spend less time online and more time reading the books I bought. I think I still have 23 unread ones. Yes, I keep track. The book I am currently reading has made me weep with relief twice already. It's not one of mine; my friend Cyril lent it to me. Its title is History of Love by Nicole Krauss. A certain passage I have come across made me stop reading it for a full hour because it felt so painfully accurate and made me say, That's the way it was. Exactly. It's extremely validating to be reminded that I am not the first and the only one who has experienced these necessary losses.

Oh and I've been writing again. Not blog posting, but writing. I started just this morning and have already filled up around 6 pages of my company notebook. Am looking forward to buying a new Moleskin soon.

Also, I guess I need more time to write the way I used to. Need is the operative word. I need to be less focused on what other people might think and concentrate more on what I think. I need to truly write for myself, without pretention but with more pride. I need to be more honest and open. I need to remember why I started writing in the first place. I need to find that strength that has been so evident in me when I was younger, less structured. I need to see things clearly and not be afraid of the things I would see. I need to be needed less.

I need to relearn my life.