Catharsis

“i have no thoughts,”  i say as i lie  shivering alone, on the dusty carpeted floor, 

i hide and i hide, finding myself slowly getting smaller, as i tuck my whole body  inside, to a place no one can ever reach, yet my voice, so small and my hands  shriveled and so weak caresses me as though  they care, take pity for my ever so lonely, and wicked soul

“what are you thinking about?” asks the wanderer, a sick man unrelentlessly following  a trail i left, yet never understanding why,  why i ever left. 

he asks again “what are you thinking?”  and i simply reply, without a hint of hesitation, “i’m simply not thinking of anything”  and if i did, i would simply  wish to stop, and i tuck myself again, to grow smaller and smaller, nothing more  than a spec of dust, and people would never know why  i chose to disappear  saying “you’re simply stuck in your youthful idealism,  waiting for a miracle that’s  never going to come” but i say that i would rather wait, all hope stored inside my crumbling mind  than live a life so long, to struggle, to take in air yet never learning  how to truly breathe, to wish  and never expect, to create yet never see,  i may never see it, the end of my idealism, may never stop wailing and crying like  a small and feeble child, and i sing in harmony to the winds  that circle the world 

mornings elude me  the sunlight clothed in deep green,  its breath always in between  the static of the television screen  and when i peel of its shell, tied and hooked to the window side  i see it spread so wide  into the hollow emptiness  of this never changing room

when i wake up, a quarter before eight  eyes still heavy, mouth dry from silence  the hoarseness of my voice, enveloped  by countless wishes unheard  but speaks to me so softly, and holds me so gently like a small and fragile prayer, i feel the wind slip so faintly, whistling through the moldy, unseemly cracks of the concrete wall 

the wind blows earnestly, grazes past the grassy fields,  as tiny drops like tears fall from the seemingly unending clouded sky a whistle slips in through the moldy sill 

a fine tune hummed like a lonely whisper,  an echo from the splatters of the summer rain  the cicadas turn silent, overrun by the deep croaks of the mischievous frogs, and  a sigh emerges from a man peering behind the glass

one line, i’ve struggled to write this one line, like  a muzzle in my mouth, a cloud in my mind, senseless thoughts  arise like sprouting seeds  on barren lands, and  i am always nowhere to be found 

the light finds me in turmoil, seemingly  creeping in between the gaps, cracks on my soul, a singularity emerges  across the table, from  the mirror, i see a thousand  reflections staring back,  and in the deep, dark eyes that stares hauntingly  i am always undone 

first they were nights, then they were days

i browsed through the morning feed on a hot summer morning, the airconditioning keeps the discomfort at bay. once, i remember feeling all giddy seeing what the new day will bring but now, i stare at the screen as if the fleeting sense of expectation slowly turns like a responsibility

when i come down the stairs, my ears are flooded by the faux radio static and monotonous voice of the morning newscaster. it irks me, like im being forced against my will, another responsibility shoved down my system

then i think about the games i play, the books left unread, the food yet to be eaten, and suddenly it all feels bland. sometimes when i feel all the tastes and pleasures in the world fleets, i succumb into my lonely slumber to awake with a new sensation, yet even now, the mornings are as dry as the evenings 

slowly, i lose my sight, my hearing, my scent, my taste, and now my touch. the sense of feeling which ive held tightly so much, it fleets like the predawn fog, disappearing into the blazing rays of the inevitable sun. 

but who would believe me when i speak? who would find an empty vessel on someone who speaks the same as before, who eats with much gusto, who describes the day as romantic as he did. the world keeps on moving yet the hollowness keeps growing, as if my insides are leaking out 

i have no more expectations left, ive run dry and ive only turn to my laments as a sort of comfort, to feel that im alive, but even that, it feels like it’s slowly running out. i can never view the sky as i did before, or describe how my heart hurts, how my bones ache, how my muscles twitch to keep me awake at night 

Please do not reproach me for my decisions, rather reproach me for being weak and failing you. If I had been able to fight as longer as I thought I would, I wouldn’t have lied about the countless days I did not manage.

When I felt that I already lost my battle, I harbored ill-feelings towards everyone, including those who are near to me. “Why couldn’t have they helped me?” I thought. You’ll always be looking for someone to blame. All the while I keep having these feelings, I keep agonizing over the defeat. Only now do I realize that I wasn’t done. By laying down my arms did I finally understand what it means to actually lose the battle. 

Maybe it’s because I have been much more acquainted to the lingering sadness that I cry with much vigor, and I lift the heaviness inside my chest much easier. Like common colds and fevers, depression is an illness. As such, the body will continue to fight it. An illness kills when the body can no longer fight it, but now, even my soul itself has succumbed to it. 

Countless times I have told myself, I hate my mother, I hate my father, I hate my brother who lay on the sofa all day, I hate my sister for talking behind my back, I hate my sister for telling all my secrets, I hate my sister for neglecting me in new company, and I hate my little brother for hating me. But how could I even hate the people who I’m writing this letter for? 

Every night I pray that everybody lives a long life, and whenever I see someone get injured or sick, I curse God for ignoring my prayers. Maybe this is just a punishment that I deserve for cursing the divine. I am but a tiny spec in the universe, and God would not be so carefree in letting it wander about cursing His name. 

Again, please do not reproach me for this. Reproach me for the words I have said, the deeds I have done, the burden I have imposed. My guilt has eaten me, and it is mine alone. Please do not speak ill of me, I at least deserve peace. 

I think it’s selfish for me to ask God, who has given me life, to instantly take it away, and so, I believe he made me suffer for me to take it on my own.

The selfishness of forcing a divine being to create human acts, that is my greatest sin. Just once, let the Lord allow me to be rid of sin and just smite me to end my suffering. 

As time passes, I’ve grown pass believing that things will get better. It’s been 12 years since I’ve started thinking about this, but it doesn’t get any better. I’m rotting and it’s only a matter of time before I let go of this ridiculous life of mine. 

I keep asking for redemption but I keep falling down, my mind spiraling into a pandemonium, and when I finally get the strength to get back up and fix myself, my sin comes back to haunt me. It feels like the fears fester inside my mind, and I can no longer remove the wound left inside me. 

But could it be that all of this is my own doing? I can no longer blame people at this point, it is all me. I think there’s no more room for debate. 

All I have to do now is to choose the method. That’s it. 

If the world can suddenly become better overnight, then maybe there is hope for us, for sinners like me, for those abandoned like me.

In April, I stare longingly at the bright blue sky, the cicadas sing much louder, and the bright green grass turns golden brown. From the window sill, I quietly wished for the seasons to change. There was a time when I lay somberly on my bed, and the faint whispering downstairs slowly creep to the room where I stay. I slowly raise my body up. As I close my eyes, keeping the bright sun rays in check, I peacefully wished for the seasons to change much more quickly.

During the gloomy July afternoons, where the world is painted in gray, I still stare longingly at the world outside, and I’m reminded of all the displeasure it gives me. Damp air, smelly clothes, wet socks: all of which I’ve grown accustomed to. As I put on layers on layers of clothes, I see a slightly crooked line, clouded by a fog that keeps on growing thicker. I close my eyes again and I wished that rainy season would go away. 

Perhaps I could never grow accustomed to the seasons as I hope I would have. Not in December when the air is crisp and much torturously nostalgic, and not in May when the air is constantly filled with moisture and remorse, and all the while I keep wishing that the next season would come. 

I have grown much older but the world is still as cruel as it is. I am stuck with a treacherous season where the world treats me so unkindly. Summer winds signify love, December winds heartbreak, while the Habagat signifies a storm. I don’t mind a storm, as long as it can wash away the unsettling feeling that clouds my heart. 

I had hoped to become a better father than my father, but it seems I cannot be a father in this lifetime. I could have raised my child with my partner like normal couples you don’t see in movies, but the world doesn’t allow it. I am stuck wishing for something that is far beyond my reach right now, and the seasons won’t change. The dreadful season just won’t change. 

I can only hope that my mother who was a mother throughout my life, can continue to act like a mother without remorse. I just wished that she didn’t have to look at me with those eyes that scream “I’m sorry you are not normal,” but that’s the end of it. I don’t want her to say sorry. 

Maybe it’s too much to hope for my siblings not to treat me like I’m different. That they wouldn’t throw out words as if it were mere words. My heart aches because I can’t do anything about it. The seasons are just out of my control, and all the same, I just close my eyes and let the wind carry out my silent wishes. 

The summer is hot, the rain is cold, but all of its displeasures cannot be compared to how my heart aches to the season of old men and women. 

Iba ang init sa kapatagan,  sa tabi ng dalampasigan, sa paanan ng bundok, sa gitna ng kabukiran Ang siyudad ay lugar ng pagibig.  Isang umagang mapagtraydor, isang gabing kinukumutan ng lungkot, ngunit  ang lamig sa siyudad ay hindi mapapantayan ang init ng probinsya

Ang konkretong pader, sumisipsip ang bawat alon, ang init mula sa araw ang bulong ng mga tao

Ilang daang harurot ng oto, tinatabnunan  ang awitin ng mga aso’t ibon, patuloy na  nilulunod ang sigaw ng mga damdamin, nais kumawala sa pusong bumubulong ng hinagpis

Kulay-abo ang paningin, sa tuwing lumilingon sa siyudad na nababalot ng usok, patulo na nanlilinlang, tinatago ang totoong damdamin ng mga nandito.  Ngunit, kahit kailan man, hindi pa rin matatalo ng siyudad ang init  sa kapatagan, kung saa’y bawat tingin  ay may kahulugan, at ang bawat bulong ay rinig sa kawalan. Ang bawat salita’y tula bawat himig, musika, bawat galaw, sayaw at bawat ngiti, isang uri ng sining

‘Sing init ng probinsya ang umaaligid na damdamin, ‘sing lakas ng alon na humuhulma sa dalampasigan, at ‘sing lawak ng kabukiran kung saan kita’y unang nakita

It’s always warm in here. 

The sun peeks through the window, only to let itself be known. Helplessly still, it does not reach through the dining table, and the varnished wood remains under shades. But as it is, the warmth of the space only brings about discomfort but I eerily feel a slight chill traveling up my spine. 

Hot air, hazy glass. Like a deep sigh hoping to still the turbulent waters kept under wraps, I find myself wanting to drift away from this scene. The warmth only displeases me now. As I remember, unpleasant memories continue to cover my myopic gaze, and I am left helpless to the unwelcome emotions that I harbor so deeply. 

I’ve flooded the world, one drop at a time and neither one has seen how the waters gush out from me. Salty water, some tastes like iron. As I run dry, what else do I have to pour out for the world to hear my calls? One step closer, though much farther, I feel it coming closer to me and the world will remain unchanging. A single spec of dust in the universe, who will mourn for it? 

I find myself going against the tides which brought me here, only to be filled with much contempt for myself. But I happily gaze upon the pale orange light and the slightly purple skies, wanting for it to remain a forever sunset and hoping that night would never come. 

Even the moon rises, as they say. But even as the treacherous sunshine hides away on the other side of the world, I still feel its warmth as if always embracing me. And just as much, the warmth of this space lingers and I briefly allow myself to be consumed by it. All filled with rage, I can no longer love the way I used to, nor can I accept any more love. 

I’d say to the doctor that it has just been weeks. 

I may have told my friends that I was tired, and I just needed rest. 

I think I’ve told my family ever since. 

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been treading on shallow waters. Sometimes I’m washed away by the tides and it feels as though I’m constantly drowning. 

When I awake, I find myself lying on the shore and I unwittingly walk towards the ocean again. There are just some things that won’t go away. 

I drank my medicine diligently. They say that this is just a natural symptom, and so I trusted the the medicine will eventually take this away. 

I may have lacked faith and so my mind and my heart feels as though they’re always in turbulent waters. Oh maybe if I prayed to God as diligently as I could, the storm the rages would just dissolve. 

I just need rest, or so I thought. My body feels so tired. It aches and it’s not just the muscles, the bones that ache. When I wake up, I wish that the pain would just go away, but it may have grown: nesting inside of me. My spirit is crumbling and it’s becoming more tiring to fight. 

Physical illnesses have broken my spirit a long time ago. I feel as if I’m fighting a battle that I could never win, but I withstood all of those. Now, my mind is crumbling, wearing down like carved mountains. I have nothing more to support. 

Sometimes I think that maybe I was weaker than I initially thought. I haven’t been thinking recently but it just comes, no matter how much I dive into my work, how preoccupied I am with matters of consequences, I feel like I couldn’t keep the looming darkness in check. 

But it just feels lonely sometimes. I have nothing to leave but memories, whether pleasant or unpleasant, but I wished that it was more worthwhile, the time I spent with people that is. 

I could no longer hate anyone but myself, and I just hope that one day, I would be finally free.