maybe we need more

A young man probably in his late twenties sat down beside me and started a monologue without regard of embarrassment as if  I am a longtime friend he had not seen for years and not like the strangers that we really are. He did not look at me when he split open his heart and shoved it to me.

I wish that she could have loved me… not like how much I adored her but even more — like how the day marries the night without question. I wish that she could have loved me so earnestly enough for her to have created a storm inside my emptiness. I wish that she could have loved me enough for me to burst into an endless symphony of chaos and beauty that made sense and meant nothing altogether.  I wish that she could have loved me enough  . . . 


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The Rest of Us Just Live Here

“Not everyone has to be the Chosen One. Not everyone has to be the guy who saves the world.”

Mikey, Henna, Jared, and Mel try to survive the remaining days of their high school life while the rest of their peers, the “indie kids” go into battle with the Immortals. The book pretty much shows how the lives of those who were not chosen to do great things (the premise being that there is such), still continue to live and solve their own mess.

Of all the main characters and their troubles, I loved Jared the most. Jared who until the end of the novel, just remained selfless, simple, and humble inspite of his God lineage. I also loved that his personality was a huge contrast to his physique and his genealogy.

As for whether I enjoyed the book or whether I would want a copy on my shelf, the answer is no. I did not enjoy how it was written nor the fact that the narrator, a seventeen year old boy called Mikey who was suffering from OCD, despised his mom’s egocentrism without noticing his. I didn’t enjoy the abrupt change of scenes and how it ended with the Immortals being defeated quite suddenly.

Someone told me that I would be able to relate well with this book. I guess she thinks I’m like the main characters and that I just live here. As snotty as it sounds, I don’t think any one of us are chosen to do “greater” things. We’re all just pretty much similar despite our differences and indifferences.


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The Beauty that is Haruki Murakami

Sometimes we fall in love with a stranger. I guess that’s how I will always be with Haruki Murakami. His works always go straight into my heart. His words either builds a storm in my heart or puts my soul to sleep.

Whenever someone would ask me to summarize a Murakami story or book, I always tell them that his work is not the kind you can summarize. Besides the fact that Murakami’s works are of a magical realism genre, his works speak to people of various context in different ways. His words are presented with a very personal tone that sometimes, in my self-egoistic mind, I would wonder if he wrote it for me.

Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman is actually a collection of short stories that do not have any plot line connection with each other. I guess the only thing that connects each story is the fact that they were written by a very soulful person which makes each story a fragment of one person.

“I said nothing for a time, just ran my fingertips along the edge of the human-shaped emptiness that had been left inside me.”



I just came from the most beautiful and meaningful spiritual activity I have ever encountered. A place where one was invited to be a better person for others.

Having been schooled in religious schools all my life, I have developed a sort of aversion towards retreats and activities wherein you need to conform to a certain religious standards. I’ve gone sick of being wronged for doubting and questioning. I was mostly already a doomed soul for people when I tell them that I want to understand deeper that’s why I was questioning.

But those two days and a night of spiritual growth activity was just beautiful to the point wherein I felt empowered. It was always hard for me to marry the idea of religion and spirituality. It still is and I am still in transit but I am just so thankful of how this was accepted without judgement.

In the end, I realized that I guess sometimes we just have to meet and get to talk to the right people.


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whilst I wait

I silently shift from my seat and watch as the things my feet had collected over time escape leisurely. Why must I be the pit stop of leaves and withered flowers whilst I wait for you?

What else can the wind ferry off to me?

I see a woman’s umbrella almost answering my query. The wind blows a neon pink candy wrapper at the mercy of my feet. I pick it up and watch little pebbles attempting to sway to the wind’s serenade. I beckon the wind to bring me more things.

It rolls a discarded plastic bottle close enough for me to pick up. I grin. What an amusing game this is!

I wait for more things and close my eyes. I urge my ears to listen.

I hear a young lady’s voice tremble with desperation. I hear a balloon pop and a child’s frenzied laughter. I hear the gentle chimes of tiny bells.

The wind has brought fragments of life to me.

I hear the familiar tapping of shoes. In my mind I see her walking toward me and wait with my eyes still closed. The wind brings her closer to me. I smile. She smells of lavender soap and a light musky perfume.

What are you doing? She whispers this into my ear.

Waiting. I answered.


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