I went out again last night. Just as with the night before, and the night before that.

“I thought you’d be staying home tonight,” my mom told me, as I buttoned up my polo. I told her that I said no such thing, and that I’d be home earlier than usual.

“So when will that be?” she asked ( Read more... )

“You miss talking to her no?” a friend asked me once, after our fifth shot of tequila. And so I simply nod my head, and go on to have my sixth.

I’ve only recently convinced myself to speak to her again, if not only in well-measured phrases and obligatory pleasantries. We all have to start somewhere, I tell myself, though sometimes I find it hard ( Read more... )

When I was in elementary, I took a stab at my first short story.

It was called Shurmann the Snail, and although I would later claim that the main character was European to account for the spelling of his name, it was basically about a snail relentlessly searching for his shell in the middle of winter. It was a rather dramatic story, I have to ( Read more... )

“Alam mo,” lightrefraction told me sometime ago. “You’ve got to learn to love something more. And I love photographyQuite frankly, he has never struck me as a sensible man, for I never found it good practice to trust a man who trusts his camera more than his own eyes. But then again, on evenings of morose conversation, he always made more sense than I would ever ( Read more... )

I began smoking a week after she left ( Read more... )

I invited her to the screening last Thursday ( Read more... )

( Read more... )

And for the first time - in a long time - I can honestly say, I’m okay.

It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve written anything down, and for the purposes of this journal, that’s probably a good thing. I guess, in more ways than one, writing has succeeded in proving itself to be effective therapy. And for once, I can say without malice - being ( Read more... )

Strangely enough, I’ve never carried around a picture of her.

And it had mainly been because she’s never given one to me. I had asked for a photograph long ago, during the time I’d say with unflinching certainty, that she loved me. But as I turn the months over in the back of my head, maybe certainty was what we had lacked from the very beginning ( Read more... )

I don’t see her anymore.

Not lately. And I guess I’m better off not knowing how long it’s been. I look for her, I admit, in the slipped phrases of my friends and in the slight mannerisms of strangers. As if in trying to piece together the jigsaw that was my life, I try to fit corners with corners, angles with angles. Sometimes by chance, more ( Read more... )