On thinking too much and Silent Sanctuary songs

"Ang problema man gud nimo, Den, you think too much."

I am sober now. Well, I was, until Silent Sanctuary's Sa'yo played background on a Koreanovela show late this night. I was already geared up towards not loving her anymore. Funny, since all my previous posts sounded like I was hit by Cupid a thousand times over and over again and here I am saying I'm all over it, I'm all over her. I think I'm not.

You see, I decided to kill this feel. Why? It kills me. All the crap I said about loving someone without expecting something in return did me a lot of pain. Curse you all poets I've known. It wasn't easy. (And I'm looping Silent Sanctuary's Sa'yo while typing this, letting the feels suck me in and transform myself into a cat).

Well, my friend was right. I really think too much. Too much of all things. Too much that I always end up regretting why I always think too much. I end up not doing anything, just sitting there thinking why I think too much. I feel you, Carljoe Javier. This post is a product of thinking too much.

I know that she knows already. Well, that's cool. But that's it. She's too beautiful, too real for my fantasy. Unfair, I know. I'm ending a fight I haven't started yet. Not to confuse but she is worth fighting for. The problem is me. A geek madly in love. A geek too naive about love. A geek staring at a beautiful woman but stays there, steady, silent, wanting to talk but can't.

Curse this song.

On narrative poetry: Once There Was You and Me

Once there was you and me

and the world watched us grow.

Once there was us,

unending, for all we know.

Once there was you

with your silly laughters

and constant japes and fits

and mood swings and jitters.

Once there was you

who sat beside me and said,

"I think I'm in love,"

with all smiles but me in dread.

I asked, "Who's the lucky guy?"

and you smiled like never before.

I asked but didn't want to hear a name

for such a wretched word will hurt me more.

I felt sad and jealous,

my left eye kept on twitching;

sweat beads falling furious

at the thought of you and him kissing.

Then you held my hand;

leaned your head against my shoulder.

then a deep sigh, and came words so few,

"It's you. It has always been you."

Once there was us

with love young and tender.

Once there was such a love

that we thought meant forever.

Once there was a night damp and cold,

I held your hand and saw you crying.

Once there was a night of tears,

I let loose of your hand and saw you leaving.

Once, yes, I remembered,

once there was you and me.

Once there was such a love

meant to last for eternity.

Once was forever.

Once was eternity.

Once, it froze.

Once was a memory.

On narrative poetry: God cries

blue strides, red eyes

his kid on his shoulder.

blue strides, no life,

hands darker and darker.

blue sails, red wails

Death was beyond him.

blue sails, no fail

did he shout at the heavens:

"we are all but broken toys,

broken toys of a cruel god!

broken toys, broken boys,

broken waste from up above!

we are all but broken toys,

broken toys of a distant god!

broken dreams, broken screams,

broken whispers of a man gone mad."

yet he moved forward; blue strides, red eyes,

blue sails, red wails,

blue strides, no life,

blue sails, no fail.

"mister, what happened?" asked a passing shadow.

"my child, my child, hanged himself for love."

"mister, how sad, now where do you go?"

"my child, my child, I'll bury him in the morrow."

and he laughed

and screamed

and laughed

at the heavens.

he laughed

and squealed

and laughed

of his burdens.

"we are all but broken toys,

broken toys of a cruel god!

broken toys, broken boys,

broken waste from up above!

we are all but broken toys,

broken toys of a distant god!

broken dreams, broken screams,

broken whispers of a man gone mad."

"am i mad, am i mad?"

with blue strides he mused,

and walked off the road

to that red light that oozed

a whisper, a familiar one,

coming from not far away.

"here i am now, father,

and here now I say:

you are not broken.

you are sad, that is all.

your god isn't cruel.

he's there, up there, crying as we fall

to the shadows of fate,

that he said to me.

he is crying, o father,

as you cried for me."

On narrative poetry: Murder

throat slit;

blood on his three-year old portrait,

lions dancing

and ducks upfront the door.

he swayed to the curlicues of jazz

with the knife on his pretty hand

spitting blood

on that sofa and remembered

the girl he screwed by behind

and slit her throat

to the curlicues of jazz.

damn the woman.

damn her feelings.

damn his apathy.

jesus he was crazy.

the good kind of crazy

which dances to the mania

of pure

fun.

it was fun.

he was guiltless.

blood spurted.

blood got out.

blood got spilled.

he was dancing.

damn, he was dancing

to the curlicues of jazz.

damnable woman's right eye

staring at him.

he shieked,

and laughed

and got near,

poked the eye

and ate

it.

it was fun;

didn't taste

good

but it was

fun.

Gloomy Sunday

wailing like a bitch

on her vintage radio.

Fuck off, he thought.

FUCK OFF!

melody curved like shit

and he was terrified.

not with the blood

nor the hollowed eye

nor the chickenshit face

nor the malfunctioning kidney.

but the song

menaced him,

tearing his skin

from the inside.

FUCK OFF!

Gloomy Sunday,

Hungarian suicide.

Ah, he thought,

you ain't getting me

you fuck,

you ain't getting me.

he went near the woman

and poked her belly

with the

knife.

poked her slow

then slow and hard

then fast

and hard

and fast, fast, fast

and poked crazy.

Jesus!

God wailing on the corner.

it felt like cotton,

the belly

and the insides

popping out of her.

it was dark red

and blue and green

then all mixed like

rainbows.

Rainbows!

it was good.

it was fun.

it was glorious.

no more Gloomy Sunday on radio.

no more wailing bitch.

just him laughing on the floor

with the malfunctioning kidney.

TV set flashing

Marilyn Monroe.

Marilyn isn't there, he said.

She's over here, you fucks.

Right here, he said,

and poked her belly,

watching M. Monroe

on that damned box.

the curlicues of jazz went on.

he stood up

and danced, danced, danced.

knife on his pretty hand,

he danced, danced, danced.

God wailing on the corner,

Marilyn on her couch,

lions dancing

and ducks at the door.

He danced,

and danced,

and slipped.

He slipped on blood.

Falling short,

knife spinning on his head.

Falling slowly,

spinning.

He laughed

and cried

and did both.

Knife spinning on his head.

Falling slowly, spinning,

sheeeek!

buried between the eyebrows.

the curlicues of jazz went on.

sun hit the sack

and the sirens wailed.

Of solitude and sofa monopoly

One relief of being distant from social trivialities is the outstanding fact that I can monopolize my school library's sofa section at five in the afternoon all the way to my class at seven o' clock. This seemingly fated privilege has dawned upon me a disturbing metaphor: I am alone but comfortable about it.

As I sit my ass comfy in this desolate convenience, a part of me tremors that I'm supposed to be sad. I am alone inside this vast space that smells of books and commercialized cooling system but I am not sad. As I've said, it is a disturbing metaphor. Solitude is a tricky companion. The more you dwell into him the more you are succumbed to the idea that you are better off alone.

I wonder what they're doing right now, my friends. I always imagine them at this hour cozy in their houses or at clubs with other friends, never alone even for a second. Maybe that's why they always look rejuvenated in the morning while I wear the same stoic appearance that solitude taught me. Their happy souls paint colors all over the place while I wash them away with gray miasma of a stagnant life. When you are drained of inspiration all you can do is stare at a boring wall and hope someone pops out to hug you and say everything is okay. But it's a boring wall and it's a stagnant life.

I am alone.

That fact is supposed to matter to me but here I am, feeling alright on how things are going. The day that I feared has finally come; the day when I won't need people to feel myself validated, the day when I am happy being by myself, the day that I cast myself away from all of them. It's not that I hate people, I just love it when they are not around.

Someone, someone out there, please save me.