This will be by the people, by one who is kin to their innermost feelings, and for the people - for those who are, those who were, those who will be. This is for the "here" and the "there". This is for me.
But most especially, this is for you.
Written August 18, 2013
Word, then verb. Sound, then echo. Name and thought, then memory. Then everything fades to nothing. Life is pointless, isn't it? You're here very briefly, and then you go. You're not even sure if you are one of kind -- of all the millions that walked this earth, how can you say you're the only one who's like this or that?
You're not certain, if you can say goodbye when it's time to go...
Written November 1, 2013
I can only remember snippets of each succeeding visit - the ones which have become a regular feature of each one. Each memory is so like the others, that I often struggle to remember which year they were from. It was always the peculiar scent of burning candles, the ugly white baby's breath flowers, my grandmother's rice cake, and adobo.
Written November 9, 2013
It was always rejection: people too busy to talk, too sad to answer, too important to mess with. And I am tired -- tired of shouting out to empty space, weary of knocking on doors that I will never see open. I want to go.