03.08.04; Wednesday Winks; 06:04

Text Message of the Week: Everyone sees what you seem, but few know what you are. – Machiavelli. Thanks, shdwbxr. Chat lingo of the Week: nlm. Thanks, erotica. Moment of the (Fiscal) Week: The global leader raised in Rapid City admitting, “Most of us [Americans] are jerks. We are ignorant,”. The soonest vacation I’d be having: Early September in Bataan/Alfonso, Cavite. The soonest haircut I’d be having: Next week. The soonest fuck I’d be having and replaying on my mind: *shrugs* (Naks, feeling Aishwarya Rai. ‘Fully booked for the next 2 years’,)

Dear Niwee,


The sound of my door knob turning snapped me back to reality.

His figure approached my lying body and left my door ajar. Protests escaped from my mouth; he wouldn’t listen. It was useless.

His lips made an unexpected bend towards my cheek which I reciprocated with a protective arm. On his second attempt, I have turned immobile like a hopeful frog to be freed from its cursed life. It felt no different from the last time. The touch of his stubble against my skin raised my tiny hairs; to suppress a smile is an Olympian task. His attempt to reach my lips was unsuccessful.

The door became wide open.


Locked door: the last sound my ears wanted to welcome. Silence has been an unmet need for so long that I refused to free another heavy sigh. It might end soon. My naked body plunged to the soft cradle I have been polluting with falling hair, half-read books, notebooks tattooed with fragmented thoughts I have been trying to sew together for completion and countless pens for the past weeks. Now it’s time to cleanse them away with the deluge of tears.

The curtains filtered any possible glare from the sun. This is my moment: a solitary instant when I’m allowed to be weak, when I’m allowed to be a kid. Peek at your own risk, it warned.

Silencio. It was too silent I could hear my heart break. And I bawled. Again and again, my shoulders shook and tears rolled down my face until the remaining energy I had killed me. But it miraculously resurfaces, tolerating my need to cry.

It has never felt this good.


No amount of distraction from the boob tube, from my entertaining brothers or the family’s official toy pacified me. It was undeniable: my shadow steers my ship. Trudging towards my bedroom, I was greeted with the realization that I have treated myself so badly. Is escapism still the best option? How should I start when I have begun shaking my head in hopelessness? Am I still capable of bouncing back?

The mountain of unread/half-read books on my bedside table faced me with jealousy in their eyes. The others were still unprotected from the sweltering heat and blistering cold I expose them to when I abandon them to the unloving company of our housekeeper. The drinking bottles crooned in stupor, asking for a new company. The books and pirated DVDs were dead sick of being together in my rack. I began to regret the moment I decide for my bedroom to sport a workaholic look by making the computer a reachable company. And my pictures…they gave me a poker face. They know perfectly well how to start the series of self-deprecating stabs! Beyond their closed mouths lie an urgent request for an update.

The most recent picture in my gallery is the trip to Enchanted Kingdom with colleagues last January: a group picture after the last Rio Grande ride. I grabbed it and took it with me in the comforts of my bed for inspection. I was in the middle, my white shirt and non-smiling face in contrast to all of them. It was impossible to miss how my drenched shirt outlined my upper body, the damp hair giving drama to my attempt for a stolen look. Right then and there, I was convinced that I looked … sensual.

I almost, almost refused to stop that imeldific hour.


Looking at my mobile phone with a pair of squinting eyes, I realized it was not the first time it tried to wake me up. Shit. No one bothered to wake me up??? I felt my claws emerge out of my manicured nails.

Then I remembered. The usual victim of my ill temper due to lack of sleep, hunger, depression and sexual frustration is gone. Dad has left. Nobody else will pound my door and make me walk out from my dreams. Nobody.


pashgrupth is now offline.

Possessed by some unknown devil, I reached for my mobile phone and snapped it off. I’m slamming my doors to any possible employers, friends and stalkers, I thought. No more talks about career, no more complaints about unrequited love and sexual drought, no more solicitation for ideas, no more laments for underpaid/overworked crap, no more futile exchanges.

Slumping my back to the welcoming arms of my bed, I plotted to remain firm on my self-imposed ex communicacion. My aching head, my mad heart and my unhappy ovaries were beating in unison.

Fuck insomnia.