Tripartite is how a storm convulses us from sleep
One, it annotates the walls of bed:
a slight powder of mist here,
a cologne of cold there.
The yakking feet mutter to
the mouths of head:
stay still, stay still.
Two, it anecdotes a weather report.
A chocolate milk coffee at bedside
A blooming hope for electricity
and blanket as your favorite tv show.
Sleep has the blood of storm.
Storm has none of the impurity of sleep.
There was an arrangement of the three parts
of how a storm convulses us from sleep:
a talking head,
a paralyzed prance,
staying still – and more:
a weather report we lick in bed,
electricity salvaging itself,
a necessary bond between
storm and sleep.
A fruitful melody screams in the head:
The Sunday is warm and we know, we are not, too.
The smell of the body unbathed is clinging to this shirt and the shirt cannot rinse away the smell. The blurry distance between this ‘good song,’ and all the afternoon’s avarice to a missing loudness – this is how we punctuate a lousy conundrum. We refuse living because we are told to be fearful; we refuse to move because we are prideful of thinking. The Sunday is beating away and we are all refused. The disarray is a fixture and all the voices of singers will not succeed in drowning out the colorless colors. Sometimes, Sundays are pernicious with latent flirtations and literatures hidden in musky rooms and the old collections of memories. This Sunday, tepid is the sun as clocks debate between 4:30 or 4:45. Tepid is the room without the lunatic, dancing companions. Tepid is the day now dying, now submitting to a chancy non-eventfulness. Microsoft word is very cold.
The Grotto is dead
Today, the rains hesitate, while I, and the thousands of others who returned to school. First day of classes: again, new faces, old faces, new surroundings, all surroundings.
This is how we return to what we deem to be old things:
I turned over class cards today, in my second to the last semester in the university, as an undergraduate student, expected to learn some French, teach language and literature, delve into the seldom explored territory of folk literature and some more. This is how we accost knowledge, we enter classrooms and expected to thrive and be smarter, we leave classrooms and expected to be armed as we encounter the world.
I also shortly dropped by the office of the publication, nearly same same. The cruel repetition of scenarios. I wander around the university during my vast free time, summoning old times when these places are entirely different, less repulsive, more jaunty. I was waiting for the rain and some more, I was waiting for a stranger to ask me where is this room or that. I was always waiting for adventures, have always hesitated in jumping right in front of them.
As school year begins, I am promising to myself, in this blog, to the always savage wilderness that is Baguio and beyond, I will no longer just drift through the wind and ponder upon our futile flights; I promise to be fiercer than ever, teeth gnashed together and fists as obdurate as the expression of Bernardo Caprio when he was attempting to save humanity. I promise to be fancy and good, because this cycle is rarely a jelly ace and sweet watermelons. And hesitations are better when overcome.
Do not be afraid to write. Jessica Zafra said that words are the only thing we have. Wittgenstein tried to be introspective and simplistic: the limit of my language is the limit of my world. Write anyway, no more dicta and commandments and implications. Write because there are always better days.