Thro(w)n(e)

High and mighty, you think you are.

High up in your pedestal, sleek shoes shine from the bootblack’s sweat.
High is what you feel up on cloud nine; divine ecstasy, afraid of getting wet.
Highness, of royalty, you reek of old money.
Highness, of power, you forget the small luxury.

You dream more elegantly; you’ve acquired new sophistication.
You live under great conditions; you’ve lost real imagination.
Your smile is different, you’ve forgotten the value of failure.
Your smile is different, you’ve forgotten your savior.

Sharp as you look, suited and proper.
Conditioned behavior, manners are of pauper.
Fine dining becomes casual routine.
Devouring assets, simple and clean.

Up and up you go.
Will you think of those below?
Your reign will soon be over, make sure to land on your feet.
Don’t get too comfortable, recovery won’t be sweet.

Tuesday Let Down

Sometimes one can only take constructive criticisms to a certain extent.
Perhaps I shared too much information and I should have went in there without hesitations or reservations. Which I thought I did. Did I say something wrong? They told me that they believe I’m not capable of handling the pressure, meeting the deadlines on time. Perhaps I didn’t paint them a clear picture of how I responded with my answers. Was I generalizing too much? Was I not sharing enough information. Perhaps I should have made sure I answered the questions properly, “did I answer your question? Do you need further clarification?”- – – to which the latter, I even asked. The response I got was no; that I’ve provided the proper answers. It’s always the mind game with these type of situations. Why can’t we just cut through the bullshit and tell me what they really want and what I could provide to prove my worthy? Perhaps I wasn’t worthy enough. Perhaps I wasn’t enough. *sigh*

I have to feel through these and let it out in order to fully come to terms with it. Rejection is always a psychological harm to one’s mental health that could potential harm physical health. I’ll move on. . . eventually. This is just a learning process. Every day is a learning process. I am capable enough. I am worthy enough. I’m confident in my skills and abilities. Perhaps I need to be more vocal. I could always walk the walk without talking much. It’s time to speak up more. It’s time that I believe in myself.

I got this. I can handle it. I’m more than just the first impression.

Inside Out

Beautifully written.

Epiphany in the Cacophony

My mother always told me, Exfoliate. Moisturize. Wear sunscreen.

It’s hard to say when it really was that I started caring about my looks. I forget what ran through my mind when I first stepped into a parlour and asked to get my eyebrows threaded. I forget if I was shy the first time I let someone wax my legs. Or when it was that a fifteen minute ritual of trying not to blink while shakily drawing my eyes turned into a quick, confident stroke on my way to class.

I realize that for most of us, the transition happens seamlessly. Somewhere along the way, between all the classes and lunch breaks, we realized how important it was to look good. Perhaps its inevitable. I would be lying if I said I haven’t spent my fair share of time in the front of the mirror squeezing the blackheads at the…

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Usual Encouter

Today is like any other “usual encounter” days. It just so happens that it’s also Sunday. Usual encounter used to be just plain odd, weird, random, unusual collision of fates–with strangers. I’m not sure what it is about me. . .perhaps it’s my aura or something about my demeanor that strangers would often gravitate towards me; most of the times, it’s street beggars putting their puppy face on, asking for monetary assistance. Then there are cases where strangers would come up to me to ask if they could borrow my phone to call a buddy of theirs (reasons unknown). And they always seem to know when to strike–during morning rush, the stroll home, or even when I’m trying to replenish my body with food. Today is just one of those days.

I was heading towards a local gas station with an am/pm store, just a block away from where I live. On my way there, I saw a short guy with a baseball cap, baggy pants, and what seemed to be a black overcoat or just a regular coat reaching almost at knee-length; this guy was chatting it up with a middle-aged looking Asian man, holding a bag of groceries. As I cross the street, their conversation breaks and the short guy tuned his attention to yours truly. I didn’t make eye contact but, felt a signal, tunneled towards my direction. I finally made it to the corner, walked pass by him and heard an inquiry.

He asked for the time. I didn’t have my cellphone with me and had in mind to tell him that but, words were jumbled inside my head as it is my first exposure to the outside world since coming home from work on Friday. I was stumbling in search of the words, I muttered that I don’t have a clock, followed by a visual gesture pointing at my wrist, he laughed and was confused to the point where the f-word spilled out from his mouth, naturally it flows–until I deflected with an ‘aha-moment’–yes, finally! Excited and disappointed at the same time, I told him that I didn’t have my cell phone with me; elated that I managed to say the words and disappointed. . .in myself for taking a while looking at rows of random letters in my head, like a word search puzzle. He introduced himself to me, Richie shook my had and asked where the fuck he was. Where he was? How did he even get there in the first place? I asked where he was trying to go. He just said that he’s looking for a place to hangout. He then asked if I smoke weed. I was hesitant. I told him I’m not a casual weed-smoker, I’d only take a puff when I’m around people who has a roll ready at hand. I can’t even remember the last time I took a hit. He then continued to interrogate and asked where the closest park is located. I told him a couple of directions. He shared nonchalantly that his sister died today and just looking to chill. He asked if I have any cash with me. I looked at him closely, trying to read between the lines, searching for the lie out of the comments he stated. He was calm, perhaps a little tipsy but I couldn’t sniff the alcohol or tell from his stance that he’d been consuming some. I looked at him again and saw the tattoo marks peeking up from his crew neck shirt; it could be a phrase or someone’s name traced across his chest. I looked at his dark eyes while he was screening at the surroundings. If his sister died today, shouldn’t he be with her? If he doesn’t know where he is, again I asked myself, how did he get here? He knew there was nothing I could do. He forfeited and made a step to the side, by the bushes. He told me that it’s nice hanging out in that particular spot, to then share that he’ll proceed finishing his beer. I smiled and turned my body back to my route. He bid farewell. I told him to take care and finally got to the store like nothing happened.

Everywhere I go, every corner I take, it seems that encounters like these, are not random at all–the more I think about these type of scenarios I experienced, is as if some entity out there is trying to test me. I’m not certain of the goal or lesson behind these type of assessments. After all, I was never an excellent test-taker. I only do well when I’ve fully prepared for it and/or know exactly the type of questions to answer. Perhaps when I encounter another one like this, I’ll know what to do.

I know nought

I feel as though that trying is sometimes not enough.
I try finding possible answers to people’s questions, spending hours like its first priority and it’s still not enough.
I try to reason with people whose points are curved, yet plotting points to keep it straight is not enough.
I try to do good onto others without expecting anything back. People keep asking for more, I guess it’s not enough.
I try to be strong. . . lifting all the burdens is not enough to carry the pain that came with it.

Is being savvy and witty enough to resolve people’s inquiries?
Is being empathetic and articulate enough for people to understand my point of view?
Is being kind and compassionate enough to make people do the same to others?
Is being tough and brave enough to rise against adversities?

I’m not sure if anything is enough. The only thing I know is that I try.

Open letter . . .

To my future lover,

Why me? I feel that I don’t deserve you, that there are way more attractive, smart, and funny individuals out there–fit to match the mold of your heart. I can’t even act properly when I’m around you. Every time you call my name, my ears tickle. Every time you stare, my knees weaken, my face warm-up, and I’d look away ashamed–not worthy of receiving them. Every time you hold my hand, my entire body melts like ice, heart liquefies, spreading throughout my veins, I bleed of pure love. The affection you constantly show, the care you constantly provide, I cry just thinking about them. I know it seems pretentious and superficial, but know that it’s all natural–my feelings as authentic as the wild flowers that grow beyond the peaks of mountains; it’s as clear as spring water; it’s as delicate as fine china. You’ll soon discover my discrepancies and become familiar with my mannerisms. You’ll lose interest and think that I’m too clingy–a key stuck in a chain. You’ll quickly recall disappointing moments when we argue–I’m always to blame. Despite my imperfections, you’ll stick around for a while to see where this path will take us. Relationships are unpredictable. We can only evaluate the value of it through moments we’ve spent. . carving our names on picnic tables and aging trees. Speaking as if all of this will eventually happen; it’s all wishful thinking. Pinning all the possible visionary interests on a drywall–bare and taintless.

I am growing impatient by the day. Where are you? Are you waiting for me–to come to you, to be presented on a special occasion, to be neatly decorated with characteristics you find desirable? Perhaps we’ve already met–on city sidewalks, train stations, supermarkets, restaurants, gathering commons, elevator rides, church benches, museums, food lines? There are so many versions of you that I sometimes get distracted by the perfect image I expect you to be. When will you come to me? When will you whisper my name? When will you hypnotize my full attention? When will you caress the surface of my layered soul? When will take my sins away?

You are only a dream I look forward to reliving at night. A show I would buy all the tickets to. A song I would sing to last forever. It’s possible that we will never truly meet, but know that I’m hopeful for that day to come. Know that I’m here. . . ready. Should you decide to appear, no need to warn me in advance. Just be there, ok baby?

❤

Legacy

What will you leave behind?
What will people remember you for?
What moments do you want people to remember you by?
Are you happy of where you are now? Or are you working towards something that will help you achieve your goals in the future?
What can you do to get to where you want to be? –To be someone that others will look-up to?
When you see your own reflection, what/who do you see?
–Do you see someone who will do anything to get to where they want to be? A fighter who will face any obstacle, trials, and hindrance along the path less traveled?
–Do you see someone who is unsure of where to go. . . indecisive, apprehensive, unmotivated to explore?
–Do you see the same person that once stood in the same place, oblivious of tomorrow, carefree, relentless to be who they want to be. . guided by the ones whose hands are calloused from scraping every minute of every hour just so you could survive another day?
Who will remember you once you’ve gone away?
Who will remember your smile, your laughter, the way you look, the way you move?
Who will be there to stand beside your remnants, to clean your eternal bed?
When are you going to set your foot-print on unknown territory?
When are you going to make this day last longer as to fill more sand in the hour glass?
Why do you matter?
Why do you live?
How are you going to live a better life than yesterday?
Like diamonds, do you wish your history to last forever?
What are you hungry for?
What will be your last words?
What . . .will you. . . leave behind?

Bubble*POP!*gum

People come and go–like the hours of a day, one moment they’re there, bright and warm.. the next, they’re gone, dark and cold. Moments pass. . . each minute wasted by nostalgia.
It’s true what they say. . .nothing is everlasting.
People invest their time and energy in friendships they thought would stand against distance and inevitable flow of change. Like the hustling and bustling corners of Wall Street, the value of friendships are often times traded with diminishing connections for other relationships that are thought to be better. . . temporarily. . . like a new gum . . until the flavor subsides. . . only concoction of rubber and plastic remain–dry and tough making jaws locked. Relationships come and go–chewing gum are easily disposed of as it is quickly chewed. . . each bite takes away the sweetness. . . each moment spent feels the constant duty to entertain each other. . . the more effort it takes, the less thrilling it becomes . . . yet you continue to chew on that flavor-less gum . . . until you feel it’s no longer satisfactory. . . then a new one comes. . . like time, the cycle never ends.

Foolish heart.

Is it silly of me that I still have your hand-written notes?
Words seem to peel off the page as I read each line–outlines of each stroke are left behind.
I look at it, positioning myself to your state of mind–imagining the thoughts going through your head as you write. As I read more, I get a sense of who you are; each spacing between words, the shape of each vowels, the bullets, lines, bold forms, all are hints of your mannerisms.
I wonder how you are now.
I wonder if your writing is still the same.
I wonder if you still look at me the same.
Perhaps if I graze my fingers on each dents left by the pressure of the pen, I’ll feel your presence. I wonder what comes to your mind when you write my name down–with the same hands that wrote these notes–the same hands that I have yet to hold.
Is it silly of me that i still have you– written in my heart?
–Or is it silly of me to have these thoughts that linger, like a ghost phasing through your walls–only a presence, you feel. . . cold.
You don’t see me, like how I see you.
You don’t feel the same way I feel for you.
These things. . . I guess are silly.

Grounded

I always look at the ground . . . whenever I walk. . . on the sidewalk I barely make the effort at looking straight ahead. Instead, I look at my path. . of where my feet are making contact . . with the pavement . . made to be stepped on. . . bounded to the earth that people don’t appreciate enough. . like the unwanted crust from a slice of pizza or a homemade sandwich, disregarded and not wanted. . . I look down to not engage contact with the walking bodies of strangers. . . from the street corners of conjoined houses, to the bustling system of train stations and around alleys for financial institutions. The ground will always be there. The only time I look up is when I see an architecture worthy of my attention. . . the complex engineering of constellations beyond the blueprints of hand-made skyscrapers. . . it doesn’t take long before I fix my attention back . . down to the ground. I will forever look at it knowing that I will one day be buried in it.