sarap manisi, wala namang masisi

ayoko na magalit— sayo. kasi hindi mo kasalanan. gusto ko lang sisihin, gusto ko lang magalit— ang/sa mundo, ang/sa buhay. naiipit na tayo. at ang hirap hirap hirap. parang na-trap sa devil snare. or sa garbage compactor ng death star.

mas madaling umalis. mas madaling umalis at sabihin “ayoko na!” sabay grand exit, malapelikula. ang hilig ko pa naman mag-walk-out. (ang tanong, susunod ka ba? manunuyo ka ba, tulad ng inaasahan— inaasam— ko?)

pero ito naisip ko ngayon lang. parang may metaphorical/imaginary bulb na biglang sumindi sa taas ng ulo ko:

kung umalis ako, at sabihing “ayoko,” naisip ko, mag-isa ka na lang maiipit. at mag-isa ka lang na mawawasak.

hindi pwede. wala ka namang super strength. mabuti pang dalawa na lang tayo maipit, masira, madurog…

On February 6, I will be performing a translated monologue of Nina from Anton Chekov’s The Seagull

One of the little ways in which I see myself in Nina, or
Why I’ll never blame Nina

Kostya loved her dearly, there is no doubt about it. But I think Nina loved Kostya, too. And that a part of her wanted to stay, — wished that the love Kostya had for her and her for him were enough. But the truth is, its never going to be that way. Because Nina wanted, desired, expected More. More. So she went with Trigorin, with the hope that she will find More. But I guess, the world just doesn’t have More. Or that Nina already has More, its just that the world couldn’t accept she has it. The world will criticize her for searching, desiring, possessing More. The world will criticize her insatiability. Which is a pretty fucked up reason for her to be thrown away, if you ask me. Because it was the world who created Nina in the first place. It was the world who showed her that More is possible.

What happens if you fall in love with a writer?

karenfelloutofbedagain:

Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell your textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash you pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life.

But what happens if a writer falls in love with you?

This is a little more predictable. You will find your hemp necklace with the glass mushroom pendant around the neck of someone at a bus stop in a short story. Your favorite shoes will mysteriously disappear, and show up in a poem. The watch you always wear, the watch you own but never wear, the fact that you’ve never worn a watch: they suddenly belong to characters you’ve never known. And yet they’re you. They’re not you; they’re someone else entirely, but they toss their hair like you. They use the same colloquialisms as you. They scratch their nose when they lie like you. Sometimes they will be narrators; sometimes protagonists, sometimes villains. Sometimes they will be nobodies, an unimportant, static prop. This might amuse you at first. Or confuse you. You might be bewildered when books turn into mirrors. You might try to see yourself how your beloved writer sees you when you read a poem about someone who has your middle name or prose about someone who has never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. These poems and novels and short stories, they will scatter into the wind. You will wonder if you’re wandering through the pages of some story you’ve never even read. There’s no way to know. And no way to erase it. Even if you leave, a part of you will always be left behind. 

If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.