Never Love A Writer

Never date a writer for she will always remember all the things you did and did not do. She will also remind you of the things you should have done.  She might subtly convey the ideal man you never were. She will not ask you to be one, but she will always let you feel how much she wanted such a man. She will always remember how her heart almost jumped when you asked her on your first date. She will excite you with age-old books, great books murdered into movies, and heartfelt songs more than your next date. She will bore you with detailed narratives of what went wrong with her day and how her hope sank because of it.

She will laugh with you at your stupidest times, but she would love you just the same. She will never forget that first time you held her hand. All you’ve been through is shelved in her mind and carefully written on her notes. She will have her books. And her constant companion — notebooks with doodles of a funny version of you and your name beside hers. Random thoughts about you are carefully written on the margins of her books. Her hands will always be filled with blots of ink not nail polish and posh accessories. She might not have time to put on make-up just to be on time for a meeting because she has been engrossed into a literary masterpiece or some writing madness. She might even skip classes for it. But will always cope up. Her eyes will always be carrying those two bags. Yes, those two scary bags under her lovely eyes. Because she always gives liberty to her thoughts and emotions even if it’s already two in the morning.

She will always listen to your stories even if she finds it uninteresting. She will fake a smile and force herself to nod even if she wants to interrupt you and divert the topic. She will look at you in the eyes as if telling you that you are the handsomest man, but what truly occupies her thought was your wrong grammar spoken a minute ago. She will ask you to sit with her, not to be intimate but to explore the feeling of being close to someone so she could write about it. She will always remember how you leaned your face to hers, how you held her back, touched her lips, and felt the rush in heart. She will write a poem for you when she feels like, especially when you make her feel so loved, but more often when she’s down, miserable and vulnerable. She would always be thrilled to experience new things. It may be with you or without you.

She will fondly remember how you held her hand and awkwardly swayed into the music on your first dance. The way you look into her eyes is embedded in her memory. She will always recall how uneasy you were. She will always have that picture of you looking and admiring her from afar –how you can’t take your eyes off her. And on how you were mesmerized by her beauty on that white dress.

Never fall in love with a writer for you will never be the one thing in her mind. You see, she is enchanted by her thoughts, what comes into it, with hundreds of themes circling her brain, what literature to read, what to write, how to write, how to constantly combat the peculiarities of writing and living life. You might not just try to fall in love.

Take my heed, reader. Even if you fight, she will always be inspired. Her books are her constant companion. If she’s in the mood, she will write about what you argued. Or who knows she might even post it on her blog. Even if you don’t see often she will always suit herself in reading Tolkien, Garcia-Marquez, Neruda, Poe, O’Hara, Shakespeare or Austen. Even if you can’t help but flirt with other women, she will not nag you for doing so. Know that she is good at concealing her emotions and sealing her lips. She will always try to understand, but she will never tolerate.

Never love a writer for you might end up hurting yourself. She might have had imagined your engagement and wedding day. She might have led her mind on your vacation trips. She might have written chapters of your life together. She might have foreseen the two of you getting old. She might have envisioned you dying before her and overcoming loneliness. She might have, but that is all. For she will always be preoccupied of endless possibilities in the world, with or without you.

Never love a writer, lest she loves you more than her books, rich imaginations, impeccable skills, and passion. Never love a writer lest she tells you she is willing to spend the remaining half of her life with you. Never love a writer lest you know that deep within her heart, there is YOU.

But never fall out of love for her when you have at least one reason to love her . . . forever.



the night is young
we can still share a dance

the star-filled sky is beckoning
they utter melodies like a thousand cherubs

nothing is too hard or awkward
loosen up and live!

till our bodies fly and float above
nothing is heavy

we are weightless as feathers
numb as numb

vague as we already are
odd as we can possibly be

the night is young
but we are not

Without Pretense and Spectacles

To kiss the night sky bursting with stars,

To see the dreamer awaken from sleep,

To deem this life without weep,

To celebrate birth with pure tears,

To read stories in deafening silence,

To tell them with so much enthusiasm,

To see a blinding light,

To be guided by a flickering lamp,

To walk in haste,

To doze without care,


To love,

To consummate love,

To enjoy life,

To sink in sorrow,

To pursue a dream,

To build a career,

To create a family,

To grow old,

To die

And live again. 


All. Everything . . .  without pretense and spectacles, these  

                                               bits and pieces of irony make up a whole life,

                                                                            or perhaps death.

Soliloquy in Solace

Here I am in the middle of the city, under sky-ways, drenched, filthy, and alone.

The rain stopped, but its waters lingered on the streets I call home.

Tis be one of the many nights that I shall sleep in the cold, damp, and bustling air of the metro.

I have neither decent roof nor a mobile house.

This large city has been my home, for over a year now.

I am quite accustomed at going from place to place to find a spot to lay my head.

I don’t mind walking and sleeping on stranger’s properties.

I don’t mind about scavenging just to fill my groaning stomach.

Never did I detest begging for money.

But, I’ve always loathed other people’s stare.

The look in their eyes may be different, but they inflict the all too familiar pain.

Since I’ve sunk into the lowliest human status,

If you may call it as such, my heart never stopped aching.

Strangers look at me with disgust, fear, shame, and pity.

All too different, yet all too familiar feelings.

There were times that I would not mind them.

Among the four, I detest mostly the look of fear.

I never dreamed to be someone people would fear.

I haven’t done anything to cause them to fear me.

Ah! It may be  of my filthy clothes, lice-infested hair, yellow-black teeth,

and an altogether hideous appearance.

Nonetheless, I see nothing wrong with what I’m doing.

I feel totally comfortable at begging people for a few pennies.

At least, I am not stealing from others.


Days like sitting near a train station has been tiresome,

but it suits me.

I feel like a landlord waiting for my peasant farmers to come

and grant their harvest.

It may be a little different, but still I liked the idea.

I am thankful for those who give me food,

For that means I won’t be searching

For nearest garbage bin to find my dinner waiting.


But who am I, by the way?

I am nobody.

No one truly cares for me.

I reckon, nobody remembers me.

The woman who gave birth to me, the man who donated his genes,

Nor the nearest kin have long forgotten me.

I am nobody and no one cares for me.

You may think that those who give a dime care for me;

They do not.

They give because their conscience tells them to,

Without it, I would probably be dead by now.

People give for various reasons,

Some for love, out of genuine concern,

and others to show that they too

have a heart for the needy.

But for a beggar like me,

The poorest of the poor,

Who would truly care?

No one.

Not even you, reader.

And why do you even bother reading this?

Have you anything else to do that you

Made up to this point hearing my prideful woes?


Ah… I think I have exhausted myself from so much talking.

I haven’t told my entire story yet.

You heard of my petty perils,

But not of my deep sorrows.

Let my feet take me out of this damp road,

I am now to find my hidden nook.

Pray that I will see tomorrow,

So I may speak of the complete truth.


We pursue life,

yet tire our bodies on living.

Death is chasing.

It is near, constant and real.

Decay surrounds us.

It’s within;


and alive.

We seek love,

but find ourselves wanting.

We run for the world,

yet none makes sense.

I resolve myself to this truth:



Nothing matters.

Not even the precious life you and I own.

Nothing is truly ours.

The breath we are so familiar with

is but a son of words

spoken from Eternity.

Everything we see,

who we are,

what we do,

and all else . . .

Shall face death,

reduced to nothing.


let it not entangle

nor manipulate.


Uncover your mind

Conceive the infinite value of existence.

Unearth the depth of your heart



When I was a child I talk like a child.

When I grew up, I still talk like a child.

When I woke up, I learned to speak.

When I breathe my last, I gave my final speech.

The moment  it ended, I came back  to life.