Can you feel my quiet? It blankets over the moon. Can you see my quiet? It hovers over your pretty heads. Can you hear my quiet? It drums in my heart. Can you taste my quiet? It bursts in color, but I am still gray. I am flying like a kite through December, and I am flipping the pages of my Literature book, and it is all I can do before I beat my drum harder and faster.
My quiet is the commiserating silence you would hear if you could hear it. It is the silence that reaches an air-conditioned room at precisely 5:30 PM and it is the silence that roams over my eyes when I am still clouded by drowsiness. It is the silence that comes in place of a nightmare's aftermath, and I am stuck swimming and trudging and kneeling, and my hands look for the end of the day too soon. My lips are drawn together and the ceiling is closing in when the alarm penetrates my bad dream, and I immediately gasp at the feeling of irrational depression I feel as I surface to the day. My rib cage is cramming in. My breath—it exudes throughout my limbs. My silence is a book of words, my silence is the crouching you see. I hunch over a book and I eat more silence. I reap it in the corners of the rooms, where the loveliest of books can be found, where the atmosphere and photosynthesis are chapters away. My quiet is an irritating rash reddening on the back of my neck, and I accidentally slap my throat. I grow quieter. I talk and still my lips are drawn close. I blink and see and laugh at somebody, but still I feel hollow and I feel complete.
My clauses cackle deep within. My neck cracks from the tension. The waves horse around my heart—I am an impatient insertion point.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Friday, November 23, 2012
Hectic Sequence
Beams of bright light that shimmer through his coat of red and orange fire up the yellow in his eyes and tingle my vision with a deadly maroon. I am on viscous water, drifting and floating in a stream of reverie and escapism. My ears can hear no other than the whirring of engines in the air. My skull rumbles and I juggle the possibilities in the haste transition of day to night.
Dear brethren, I have been beheaded, but my whole body is still intact? I lose myself in frenzied melancholy and steaming anguish and my dyslexia churns through the ripples of sea water, my mouth wanting tea and cucumber. My gasps hiccup in me and my story might as well end too soon. The wind prowls around my poorly bandaged skeletal frame and I am looping myself through hoops of camera clicks. Click, click, click! I speed down onto my bottom and sink. All I do is blubber... or shush. There's a screw stuck in my windpipe and I choke it out. It stumbles into the moon, and I am left seeing this from underwater, my eyes in salt water and bubbles trying to surface. Huff, huff, I cannot breathe. Hick hick, my inhaler is down here. Somewhere. My hair blocks my vision, and right after my thoughts strangle me. I cannot breathe, I cannot breathe, but I still hear a roar as silent as a meow. I am gone. The haze of Death comes upon me like sleep, like a spell. My memory is befuddled around cat eyes as I soar off...
As I soar closer... and fly helter-skelter and raise my weary arms to touch
the close of a dream. And still, my hands are drawn to hectic streams and lines of your majesty.
Dear brethren, I have been beheaded, but my whole body is still intact? I lose myself in frenzied melancholy and steaming anguish and my dyslexia churns through the ripples of sea water, my mouth wanting tea and cucumber. My gasps hiccup in me and my story might as well end too soon. The wind prowls around my poorly bandaged skeletal frame and I am looping myself through hoops of camera clicks. Click, click, click! I speed down onto my bottom and sink. All I do is blubber... or shush. There's a screw stuck in my windpipe and I choke it out. It stumbles into the moon, and I am left seeing this from underwater, my eyes in salt water and bubbles trying to surface. Huff, huff, I cannot breathe. Hick hick, my inhaler is down here. Somewhere. My hair blocks my vision, and right after my thoughts strangle me. I cannot breathe, I cannot breathe, but I still hear a roar as silent as a meow. I am gone. The haze of Death comes upon me like sleep, like a spell. My memory is befuddled around cat eyes as I soar off...
As I soar closer... and fly helter-skelter and raise my weary arms to touch
the close of a dream. And still, my hands are drawn to hectic streams and lines of your majesty.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Shy Spine Steps
You owed me the hands of the clock and you owed me my breath. You knew the steps of my spine, and you filled the crevices of my lungs. I was hallow so I inhaled deeper, even as my breath fogged up the glass. It was winter when you appeared, one more time from across the world, and your smile and your laugh and the rising of red in your neck was the summer before. I spilt my cup of choco down the drain as your laugh came cascading down my heart, and like a knock on hard mahogany you hacked that part of me and talked away my darkest dreams, whispered them away from my heavy lids. You distracted me from the television show at twilight and in lieu showed me our garden. You hopped down from the sheets and attacked me across the room, tickling my frown away and kissing a bashful smile in sight.
We nailed postcards of your words on my map. And we reinvented the world and dove into stories and memories till midnight took place and your funny snort came punctuating your laugh, and there came my laugh. I almost forgot about it. I gulped at how atrocious it was. Your face was of stone, but it was not stony—it was still and afloat. Your palms were of warmth, but I began to pay more attention to the cold through the allowance we gave the window. Our room was a cavern. I blinked dust off my lashes. You breathed like the lonely streets, but it was not like that because your eyes were twinkling like the vast ocean, keeping aquatic animals of days and nights—just like that summer again. And I liked you first. Then loved you, because you didn't stop me. And now I think you were peculiar. We were clauses and question marks. I hunted for explanations, for deep, more reasonable essays—because you were that, a winning essayist; you became your letters. But what I received was a simmering kiss under the gaze of the watchful moon. I shivered as my fingers scrambled for warmth—they were so skinny and white—so I shut the damn window and relinquished my cowardice, and then you swore it was my courage that you loved most about me. You were brimming with humor. You iced me with words I couldn't take so openly. You garbed me in them, and you shrinked my crevices into stitched patches. Your hands mapped the dark behind my ribs away. You were a hushed tone as I became a rising flush of red. Unfettered you made me as you let me grow wings.
You pulled down my lids at night when they were bright with nightmares. You brought them open the next morning when they were bright with dreams and happiness. Your whispers did well, and your stitches excellent. Your arms were open and your eyes were an experience. I hope I did funny things to your chest too, and I wish your heart still stupidly and superfluously roars when you think of me—like me you.
We nailed postcards of your words on my map. And we reinvented the world and dove into stories and memories till midnight took place and your funny snort came punctuating your laugh, and there came my laugh. I almost forgot about it. I gulped at how atrocious it was. Your face was of stone, but it was not stony—it was still and afloat. Your palms were of warmth, but I began to pay more attention to the cold through the allowance we gave the window. Our room was a cavern. I blinked dust off my lashes. You breathed like the lonely streets, but it was not like that because your eyes were twinkling like the vast ocean, keeping aquatic animals of days and nights—just like that summer again. And I liked you first. Then loved you, because you didn't stop me. And now I think you were peculiar. We were clauses and question marks. I hunted for explanations, for deep, more reasonable essays—because you were that, a winning essayist; you became your letters. But what I received was a simmering kiss under the gaze of the watchful moon. I shivered as my fingers scrambled for warmth—they were so skinny and white—so I shut the damn window and relinquished my cowardice, and then you swore it was my courage that you loved most about me. You were brimming with humor. You iced me with words I couldn't take so openly. You garbed me in them, and you shrinked my crevices into stitched patches. Your hands mapped the dark behind my ribs away. You were a hushed tone as I became a rising flush of red. Unfettered you made me as you let me grow wings.
You pulled down my lids at night when they were bright with nightmares. You brought them open the next morning when they were bright with dreams and happiness. Your whispers did well, and your stitches excellent. Your arms were open and your eyes were an experience. I hope I did funny things to your chest too, and I wish your heart still stupidly and superfluously roars when you think of me—like me you.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
An Overwhelming Visit
Verklempt, she jutted her bony palms into the sockets of her eyes, pushing back in the light and the truth... and what was left of her tears. The sun was right in front of her, and she could feel her short ponytails tickling her neck as she swayed in search of a frescade, and somebody's steady hand lengthened over her shoulder. She felt the tunnels under her toes and the rays of light trying to shush her up, warming up her cold, wet lips. Her blood dripped helter-skelter around her bones and her amber eyes sunk down and down and down... and over the sun and out of space.
She drew the constellations and colored them a clear violet. She was a shy woman, and a queen among her subjects, the Stars. "Lo and behold, she pirouetted with her emerald cloak and vanished," the 12th of October, 2042 smacked the eyes of old grandpa via headline, and he spun around almost too recklessly in his seat and clicked on the television with a nearly violent crack in the air, flicking to the morning news, then coughed with the biggest set of egg-white eyes, "Lenny, you better come hear this!" It was the beginning and the peak of a fairy tale. This was the newest bedtime story throughout the world. Children climbed laps and parents forced up tents, and all adolescents gave up on gossip and game consoles and sneaked out of glass windows. The jobless rode the skies with their eyes and wished all night. They wished every night. Journalists hushed their papers and drew the colors of Miss Verklempt with the most stellar of words, dreaming and downing bottles of champagne, celebrating what was left of the apologies of vainglorious scientists, laughing laughing laughing. "Ha ha ha! They store all their findings, whisper hastily and ostentatiously about them when we're milling about! There isn't anything left to lionize to that extent!" The hidden are unmasked. Evolution among the young ones runs through the streets because of this. What have we been thinking?! Writing?!?! You need to see!
Oh but they still did write. Their personal discoveries were cluttered throughout the corridors, banging against business buildings, and they would still pause other times. She had come swinging between the buildings one more time, and the light promise of her warmth swept the autumn leaves, swept open the windows, and heads poked out as sirens flashed. Eyes were as curious as ever and hearts were pumping greedily. A cry flew in, and there she was again. Her cloak was a pristine white and a crimson red that time and her eyes released a downpour of light and water, and she was so so so beautiful. But she was also so so so pained. Her mouth was open in a shriek of distress. Viridian trails of constellations were written furiously under her fingers. She was a mural forgotten under rambunctious graffiti. And the white lab coats couldn't cognize her reasons. The hopeless grew hopeful and the lions roared once, then twice, then thrice. Every breath was stolen as she ran through the cloudless heaven.
A mother rocked her baby back and forth, oblivious like many were, and her firstborn son who was already ten almost drooped out of his bedroom window, saying, "What a secret. Feel better. Strange lady."
She drew the constellations and colored them a clear violet. She was a shy woman, and a queen among her subjects, the Stars. "Lo and behold, she pirouetted with her emerald cloak and vanished," the 12th of October, 2042 smacked the eyes of old grandpa via headline, and he spun around almost too recklessly in his seat and clicked on the television with a nearly violent crack in the air, flicking to the morning news, then coughed with the biggest set of egg-white eyes, "Lenny, you better come hear this!" It was the beginning and the peak of a fairy tale. This was the newest bedtime story throughout the world. Children climbed laps and parents forced up tents, and all adolescents gave up on gossip and game consoles and sneaked out of glass windows. The jobless rode the skies with their eyes and wished all night. They wished every night. Journalists hushed their papers and drew the colors of Miss Verklempt with the most stellar of words, dreaming and downing bottles of champagne, celebrating what was left of the apologies of vainglorious scientists, laughing laughing laughing. "Ha ha ha! They store all their findings, whisper hastily and ostentatiously about them when we're milling about! There isn't anything left to lionize to that extent!" The hidden are unmasked. Evolution among the young ones runs through the streets because of this. What have we been thinking?! Writing?!?! You need to see!
Oh but they still did write. Their personal discoveries were cluttered throughout the corridors, banging against business buildings, and they would still pause other times. She had come swinging between the buildings one more time, and the light promise of her warmth swept the autumn leaves, swept open the windows, and heads poked out as sirens flashed. Eyes were as curious as ever and hearts were pumping greedily. A cry flew in, and there she was again. Her cloak was a pristine white and a crimson red that time and her eyes released a downpour of light and water, and she was so so so beautiful. But she was also so so so pained. Her mouth was open in a shriek of distress. Viridian trails of constellations were written furiously under her fingers. She was a mural forgotten under rambunctious graffiti. And the white lab coats couldn't cognize her reasons. The hopeless grew hopeful and the lions roared once, then twice, then thrice. Every breath was stolen as she ran through the cloudless heaven.
A mother rocked her baby back and forth, oblivious like many were, and her firstborn son who was already ten almost drooped out of his bedroom window, saying, "What a secret. Feel better. Strange lady."
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Dear Adam
THE MIDSUMMER STATION TOUR. Concert in Tennis Indoor Senayan, Jakarta, Indonesia. Approx. 8.00 PM. This was on November 14th, 2012.
This is my reaction, or review, or letter. To Owl City. On here.
Dear Adam,
I don't understand. I cannot begin to fathom why it bleeds with rich abundance, why it hurts so much. I can't look for clues. I can't unveil the definite, the rational answer to my imploration, to my emotional dilemma—why I feel so strangely alone. I am left lonely and forlorn and I don't understand why because there are many, so many people, and yet my body controls me and isolates me in my frigid and murky mind. And even as I had waited out to meet you—to ACTUALLY meet you—I was smothered with the worst of thoughts and the greatest of absurd and stupid dilemmas that didn't seem so much like that in the eye of a bystander. I did not deserve to see you and I was not destined to hear you but I had been ushered in, and all I became was a blubbering mess. Twice a camera clicked as I helplessly stained my cheeks with more tears. You reduced me to noisy mewls and whimpers I besought to silence. You were the reason why, too. Because. BECAUSE, for long you had been my savior. And I thank GOD for you.
I am stuck in the noise and the hallucinations and the temptations, and you give me hope, and blinding lights... and tears I easily taste on my lips. I couldn't see you well through my hands and my tears but you were there, and you were of enormous height and you were glowing with brilliant effervescence. I heard people gasp and my sobs worsened. I do not know why I am like this when everyone else is not. You had rained on me and nurtured me. Your music has done this to me. You grew me into something else again; I can feel it as light as a feather but also as heavy as the world. I can feel you. And GOD; if that is Him. My feet ached SO MUCH and I begged them not to, but I felt the necessity to jump for you and for everyone, along with the crowd, alongside the beautiful sound.
Yes, I had dreamt with eyes open that you were effervescent. You were glowing with the atmosphere of an angel, and it feels too surreal and I cry because I feel silly and rude and I somewhat hugged you or you somewhat hugged me.
You wore blue and white stripes. You wore—oh—a handsome face that even brought my mother gasping. You wore the orange, the purple, the red, the white, the blue, the green lights. You wore wings. You wore faith. You wore the air we gulped down. You quenched me with ecstasy. AND I still haven't resolved how you could pull apart the glued pieces of a haywire heart and stitch them back together with elite but humble words and glimpses, doing it all over again in that exact series of brusque but tiresome events.
For many moments I let my head hang and my eyes click shut, just for a moment, so I could bask in the moment while you, Breanne, Daniel, Steve, and Jasper gave me dreams and disasters. I have more and more to write, to you, but I've been silenced with awe and worry I still need to get rid of. Thank you. Singing and dancing in sync with you from the middle of the audience was love, war, and pure insanity. I'll try not to forget.
It leads to this. God bless you, Mr. Adam Young.
With gratitude and admiration,
Amber
This is my reaction, or review, or letter. To Owl City. On here.
Dear Adam,
I don't understand. I cannot begin to fathom why it bleeds with rich abundance, why it hurts so much. I can't look for clues. I can't unveil the definite, the rational answer to my imploration, to my emotional dilemma—why I feel so strangely alone. I am left lonely and forlorn and I don't understand why because there are many, so many people, and yet my body controls me and isolates me in my frigid and murky mind. And even as I had waited out to meet you—to ACTUALLY meet you—I was smothered with the worst of thoughts and the greatest of absurd and stupid dilemmas that didn't seem so much like that in the eye of a bystander. I did not deserve to see you and I was not destined to hear you but I had been ushered in, and all I became was a blubbering mess. Twice a camera clicked as I helplessly stained my cheeks with more tears. You reduced me to noisy mewls and whimpers I besought to silence. You were the reason why, too. Because. BECAUSE, for long you had been my savior. And I thank GOD for you.
I am stuck in the noise and the hallucinations and the temptations, and you give me hope, and blinding lights... and tears I easily taste on my lips. I couldn't see you well through my hands and my tears but you were there, and you were of enormous height and you were glowing with brilliant effervescence. I heard people gasp and my sobs worsened. I do not know why I am like this when everyone else is not. You had rained on me and nurtured me. Your music has done this to me. You grew me into something else again; I can feel it as light as a feather but also as heavy as the world. I can feel you. And GOD; if that is Him. My feet ached SO MUCH and I begged them not to, but I felt the necessity to jump for you and for everyone, along with the crowd, alongside the beautiful sound.
Yes, I had dreamt with eyes open that you were effervescent. You were glowing with the atmosphere of an angel, and it feels too surreal and I cry because I feel silly and rude and I somewhat hugged you or you somewhat hugged me.
You wore blue and white stripes. You wore—oh—a handsome face that even brought my mother gasping. You wore the orange, the purple, the red, the white, the blue, the green lights. You wore wings. You wore faith. You wore the air we gulped down. You quenched me with ecstasy. AND I still haven't resolved how you could pull apart the glued pieces of a haywire heart and stitch them back together with elite but humble words and glimpses, doing it all over again in that exact series of brusque but tiresome events.
For many moments I let my head hang and my eyes click shut, just for a moment, so I could bask in the moment while you, Breanne, Daniel, Steve, and Jasper gave me dreams and disasters. I have more and more to write, to you, but I've been silenced with awe and worry I still need to get rid of. Thank you. Singing and dancing in sync with you from the middle of the audience was love, war, and pure insanity. I'll try not to forget.
It leads to this. God bless you, Mr. Adam Young.
With gratitude and admiration,
Amber
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Pacific Before Tiger
For the past few days I have been reading my way through LIFE OF PI by Yann Martel. I am only more than halfway through by now as Pi continues to lather my eyes with an astonishing view through the lens of his memories. I am grateful, for this book has been a poignant escape for me even in just a few days.
It has been developed into a film. I am not eager to dive into spoilers, but I've scrolled through a miniature line of comments across the Internet and these opinions and small talks have been spoiler-free and reassuring. I hope Ang Lee excites readers and non-readers enough to make us gasp (and maybe laugh) collectively in the theatre, but for now I'm giving him the side eye.
I promise that I was just perusing through the National Bookstore branch in SM Marikina till I found a book deemed interesting enough by their summary. Then came fate when I hit the teenage fiction area further into the bookstore and tickled the book's spine before tipping it toward my curious hands and eyes. I honestly did not know its film would be out around November... or December, but, yes, a gold stamp informed me of that exactly. And now I am stuck in Pi's whirlwind of an experience, and I've never felt this funny inside since THE BOOK THIEF by Markus Zusak. I wasn't expecting so much vividity and sympathy and humor for one wise believer who, in the arousal of emotional intensity in his entire life, was only a sixteen-year-old. Martel gives us tastes of sensitivity and wonderment throughout Pi's challenges. Pi's thoughts—from worrisome to sunny bright—knock the breath out of my lungs, and wow that sounds so cliche but it is one of the crumbles of compliments I can poorly give.
Yann Martel is dazzling. His chapters leave you hungry for more and his words flow sweet with abundance. He offers a keen demonstration of the way of animals and gives Pi his own opinions and weaknesses that turn out to be strengths. Pi's relationship with God also doesn't forget to shine. What an awesome connection to behold.
Oh boy, I have some more reading to do. (But I've already went through this image via text.)
ETA: lifeofpimovie.com
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