Empire Series in Mind

I have aced many exams in my life but this question, 

I can't answer: 

why doesn't Empire have a single bad episode? 

Campy at its best. Cookie is my type of mom-in-law. 

Give her an Emmy!

Unlikely

Ever experienced a weird day? A very, very weird day that almost all of it is spent with unlikeliest people to contact you or see you at the unlikeliest place at the unlikeliest time. This is that day.

Started off with a morning text from someone you have been pining for. Longest time. Your mobile beeps, expecting promotional offers from the bank or your favorite restaurant for a discount on weekdays ending with -day for food ending with "+ 12% EVAT." But then, it's that "someone." It's that feeling that chills and warms you at the same time. It's that unlikely feeling on a -day you initially planned to end with "+ 12% EVAT."

Went on to have my regular Baclaran later that night, praying for the impossible yet surprised for a different impossible. I met my former bosses. Plural: 5 of them. Five of questioning where I have been hiding, why I have been hiding; to which, God seemed to instantaneously reply on my behalf - soul-searching? I love God's sense of humor. Something between the unlikely morning and the unlikely evening was a foreshadowing of some sort. An outsourced partner asked me whom I have worked for back in ABS-CBN. I mentioned Ginny Monteagudo Ocampo. She was there in the church, gobsmacked as I was. The universe granted a wrong different wish. Or was it just the right answer to a question that hasn't even been conceived to this day? "Depressed ka ba? Ako rin e. Pagod na ko. Gusto ko na ngang mag-retire." Man, she's only in her 40s. Foreshadowing of some sort.

We parted ways, them asking me to take a picture. No, not of me with them; this is no souvenir item for a rarity. Neither was it to corroborate a gossip of the kristopersnickety's whereabout. I repeat, there's 5 of them. Like one of those mortifying times at a club when a bunch of girls asked me to click their cameraphones for their monopod-less heads, my lady bosses simply asked me to snap for them. Probably with a suppressed thought bubble, "Sucker! WE gotcha! And we GOTCHA!" Is it wrong to be in the church, praying this wasn't happening?

That fateful coming upon climaxed to a series of double takes on people I thought were all too familiar. Ethan Hunt Mission Impossible-esque paranoia came upon me. I thought I saw a former fling's boyfriend. My eyes were sore from computer that day. My hunch couldn't be 20-20 certain. Ten, fifteen minutes later, in another area - my favorite candle room, I saw my former fling. I love God's sense of humor.

This short film of unlikelies never stopped at "fling." I flirted with the universe and dared to bring my favorite Japanese candies Hi-Chew into existence in the convenient store located in the slum. Family Mart never has it, 7-11 never has it, Mini Stop never has it. The odds with Lawson! Yet universe won, albeit a rip-off. My, oh my.

Alternative World

Some days, it's all about Pop. 

Some days, it's all about R&B/Soul. 

One day, like today, it's Alternative.

Seems to have grown from a seed of new desire to a tree of subconscious absorption. 

"I would understaaah-hiye-hiyend!" 

rings like I were in junior high again. 

Alas! Walking home got me a buddy in tow; a semi-charmed buddy that sings me words of bromance and Spice Girls-y assurance. Interestingly, my soul fressed on it with another earworm "Learn To Fly." Foo Fighters not dead. I'm getting it. Someday, it's gonna be all about Me and my quest to fit a far-fetched mold. Wait for it. It'll make some noise. In a new world. I am learning to.

One Less

One less worry yesterday, a thousand more tomorrow.

And like a traitorous wallop from behind, it hit me

- a sudden slap of gloom.

Stirred me to die to listen to "One Less Bell to Answer" on an unfounded, profound feeling.

No, I will keep shooting you down, Big D.

This is not you pulling me down,

haunting me from place to another.

I am strong.

Until this lyric poured on me like cold water - "my life's so empty" - meaning like it shouldn't ever.

Even a hundred lifetimes from now. I badly need to find someone who can match my madness.

My soul on the outside looks different from what I think I used to be one hundred lifetimes ago.

I am no millennial in this lifetime; probably in another.

This song is soothing and melancholic at the same time.

Keep playing,

stop "playing"

Beep Beep Booboo

Can't remember the last time I rode a yellow jeep.

6-7 years ago?

Dragonboat days.

Today, it took a welcome booboo

to channel cowboy back.

Think moving in to a new condo,

leaving the keys (and all valuables) inside.

Both you and the agent have no spare keys out.

Brilliant.

MOA and The Man from U.N.C.L.E. 

were too accessible to resist 

and kill time with (while waiting for roommate's key in 5 or 6 hours). 

I had to enjoy without a penny.

Cue generosity of the agent to lend me some.
Enough to buy me a ticket.
But not enough to buy me some movietime munchies.
Oh, I have incalculable 7-11 Rewards points!
Oh, I have Globe Rewards points!
Oh, I have scored a free meal from Fridays.
One thing I learned: Life's Rewards come in points.

Leaving Alone

Living alone goes full circle when you are leaving alone.

From the last Cry of Pugadlawin at work to the last mane mowing at this fun barbers, from the last batch of dirties to the laundry to the last tenancy notice that reeks of injustice and profiteering, from the last glimpses at my favoritest folks in the hood to the last draught of half-sugars,

this has got to be the most histrionic of the subdued

in human history.

On the heels of yesterday's spate of good news and a satisfying visit to my beloved Baclaran (and The Flash finale's feels), 

today chooses to follow through bittersweet.

My deliberate tendency to be obscure continues to abuse this blog with ink that conceals itself from misjudgment or in hindsight, with philosophastering that screams vulnerability than wisdom (or a mix thereof).

My epiphany today: I am alone but I ain't lonely.

Love Is

Love is 

a feeling; love is 

a work in progress. 

Love is 

a state of mind; love is 

a state of various affairs. Love is 

selfless and selfish at the same time. Above all, love is 

not defined by a single word or two. It is defined by the stages a relationship goes through. 

That love is initially a feeling. 

That love develops into an idea of survival. 

Jamba Joy

This is my depression's Starbucks.

Or simply my sinew's victuals.

Paper Works

I liked Paper Towns a lot.
Like it's 10 times better than The Fault in our Stars, which I didn't like by the way. The only Fault connection I liked was Ansel Elgort's cameo, which deserves a nod for Best Timing for a Cameo Appearance. Sent the whole movie theater's vaginas shrilling in a heartbeat and in a kind of unison that can rival synchronized swimmers. 

 
I liked that it touched me in the right places. It has Margo who is like me: the one who doesn't want to be found. It has Quentin who is like me: the sweet, musing, hopeless romantic. It has Ben who is
like me: goofy when drunk. It has Radar who is like me: passive-aggressive, dutiful, loyal son of a b.

I liked that amidst all stress, it gave me my first genuine laughs in months. And that despite this jaded mindset I'm in, the little man inside me felt the joy (and hope) of being loved and in love again...at least, even if I need to be Margo - loved from afar.

I liked that Paper Towns' soundtrack is giving me life. The Prom song "Falling" giving me Mariah teas.

I liked that Nat Wolff reminded me much of John Lloyd Cruz yet I found Sarah Geronimo at the end of the reel.

Play Dead

Press "play"

Listen to a sweet dedication. 

Wait for music to lift you up to hopeless romantics' heaven. 

Moody's mood for love is to kill me from a good 1,463 miles. 

Viber has to be app-dated to 

red

or some indescribable color of love. 

Sweet, sweet bolt from the blue...or red.

This, while my pores were being butchered by the dermatologist to make me redder than this Viber surprise has already made me.

My Six-Year-Old Boy

A skeleton gem resurfaced from my Baby Mac's archived backup: 

a short story I wrote 6 years ago.

The Boy’s Story

The boy in the first story knew that in the woods, it wasn’t The Giant Spider, The Hardhearted Cyclops, or The Double-Crossing Lilies whose traps he should avoid to fall for. He knew that the most dangerous thing in the woods could manifest in the form of a Sweet Tinkerbelle, of a Soft Lion, of a Dulcet Girlfriend, or of a Warm Stranger. Chancing upon a sweet, soft, dulcet, and warm knight in the middle of the woods, the boy knew all the signs point to this dangerous thing. He gambled his most precious cookies and gave a handful to the knight.

The boy lied.

His mouth says the cookies were for his granny or his girlfriend. But his head knows that the cookies are a weapon to chase off the most dangerous thing. His heart defeats him. The cookies ought to kill the knight he stumbled upon. The boy understands in every respect it is wrong. But what the boy could not understand is his heart’s claim that what is wrong seems to be giving him every right feeling to stay and watch the knight’s death. But after 43 or so nights, the knight remains strong as his dark horse.

The answer wasn’t brought by the 43,000 steps of walking to the farthest desert or the closest oasis but by the 43,000 steps of walking back and forth between the knight and the horse’s stable. What the boy didn’t realize 43,000 steps ago is that the knight survives because the gorgeous horse is protecting him; breathing out onto the knight’s lips the air of miraculous immune system.

In hindsight, the boy holds the simplest resolution: to avoid the dangerous thing. But the knight is just so sweet, so soft, so dulcet, and so warm that the boy cannot resist him. That the dangerous song eclipses him.

“You are my sweetest downfall. I loved you first, I loved you first. Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth. I have to go, I have to go.”

Eventually the song was halted by the girl’s rescuing hand. On foot, they got back up not the flanking castle but the most peaceful home by the woods’ end.

In the second story, well... the boy got himself caught in the netting of a tree’s arms, searching for the cure for the girl’s fatal malady. Temptingly back in his shining armor, the knight now offers the boy his own cookies. The boy threw a doubtful frown upon him. The boy knew the knight did not return to kill him with the poisonous cookies but to imply that the most dangerous thing has become inevitable.

At this point, this story’s climax has become predictable. In fact, the beginning, middle and ending of the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh or eight stories would always be like this; the dangerous thing would forever be a curse cast upon the boy’s life. Indeed unlike any other fairytales, the boy’s story is not about hunting the most precious thing. The boy knew he has every precious thing imaginable: The Persistent Sun, The Breath of Fresh Air, The Thumping Heart, and The Woods’ Riches. The boy’s story has been about avoiding the most dangerous thing. Personally, the author never believed in sad endings. Just towards the middle of the boy’s story, he was surprised the knight is betraying his thoughts.

My thoughts. My bias for happy endings.

The most dangerous thing is too good that it is true in the author’s life. After so many stories he has penned, the author knew that once again, falling vulnerable to the beauty of his story, he too was caught by the most dangerous thing. Love.

The boy grew to be known as Ceth. The woods as Jurassic. The song as Samson.

Bei, you told me you hated to be judged unjustly. You may be a Jaime with respect to your relationship with your James and Ceth but I never imagined that you could be a Jaime in every sense it could be. That even to Ceth, you could play Jaime. I should have suspected but I deferred. The thought that I’m the only Ceth gave you the benefit of the doubt. But am I correct to suspect that there’s more than one Ceth in your ShortBus?

I thought you were the perfect fit. The fittest knight.

You were too good to be true too. And now I know why; some good things never last.

The boy loved the knight. So much.

Sam-one

Someone, like me, wants to sing this so bad.

For someone like you because 

no words can explain the way I'M missing you.

THIS

is what social media have made me steer clear of or do less of myself: 

Annoying Status Updates

My New 3-Month Relationship

  With the new apple of my ears.

  This one's for me.

  3-month trial starts today.

  Tell you what I like: 

  good music. together.

Flash-light

Still unprepared to switch on "serious drama" mode

after my most favorite season of A Game of Thrones wrapped up.

Let's go light...swift-light - FLASH-LIGHT!

#smitten

Patch of Progress

Gearing up for the future.
Don't call it a comeback.
I'm not reviving from the ashes.
Taking a leaf out of Vera Wang's life book: 
Know When To Walk Away and Start Something New

When Love Wins, Who Loses?

Joy pours out

finding the gayest place on Earth

in this colorful home.

Now, who loses?

Definitely not these eager beavers.

Makes one appreciate the primal life in this age.

Frenched by French

Ever been made love to by a piece of art? French Filmfest is back to rekindle our passionate exchange of intellectual orgasms.

Recent contemplations have come down to a single fear of losing sight. When French Filmfest came greeting my beachless summer, I responded swimming in joy upon a realization my eyes were born normal to view filmic wondrousness.

It shouldn't come off a surprise that my idea of "me time" for the weekend would be sightseeing. Should you see this a travel from the obtuse to the precocious was worth every waking second processing subtitles, movie after movie. It was a tour free for all but the dense or a time killer seeker. 

La Famille Bélier is, in Kristofferson Guela's persnickety world, perfect, to say the least. The kind of perfect that made me cry with utmost genuineness. That's saying a lot considering I only get touched, in a mindset conditioned to appreciate the mainstream, by heartbreaking farewells in a movie. 

 
With La Famille Bélier, a full-fledged un-mainstream work of art, the goodbye scene shot right through all my senses before they even reached my heart. I did not know I was being prepared to cry in the end. I felt betrayed. And that betrayal messed about with my stubborn mechanism to be satisfied. How can most family movies not be like La Famille Bélier? How you demonstrate emotional appeal without hingeing on pity, entertainment without relying on the cheesy, and triumphant love without the wordplays and pick-up lines is in brilliant display in La Famille Bèlier. 

The elements of music coming into play, handicap does not entail obviousness or overuse. I am glad La Famille Bèlier did not bring music to gratuitous exposition and stayed focused on the main story arc.


Come mid-afternoon and another helping of French goodness filled the movie theater in the picture of Les Garçons et Guillaume à Table! It's like the Birdman of comedy or what I feel a breakthrough genre I may dub "SOLILOCOMEDY." The depth of this comedy is a tinge of black and heartwarming. Guillaume Gallienne urges himself to do the script more than justice; rather, he delivers with a usual sense of duty as do most French films I have seen. The premise, the conflicts, the exploitation and the denouement, all unfurled like a canvass too revealing to rede piecemeal. Guillaume could deliver best actor and best actress speeches in one night, on one stage, both at the same time.

I don't remember a single time a French film had ever failed me. Until 108 Rois Demons came along. It is, to say the least, too elementary even a nursery book can put it to shame. Put it this way: I have exerted more effort fighting snooze from second scene on than figuring a conspiracy how mediocrity had slipped into this cinematic digest. A number of other "me timers" weren't too shy to share this sentiment leaving the cinema with a discernible air of whatdafackness 40 minutes into this test of patience. Ultimately, it served me a valuable lesson: this is how not to make a good movie.

My "me time" Sunday culminated in a redemptive mood that's so cruel French cinema did me some ample reminding of why they are superior in filmmaking. In three words and 90 miuntes, it won me back - Lulu Femme Nue. How could a married woman with three children choose to lead a life of abandonment and find solace in learning the ropes of survival preying on other people's equally lonely lives is the moral uncertainty this movie gives us a taste of. There's another story similar to this. There is an exhausted human being who wants a life out of his aquarium for the past 1 or 3 decades (1 as a corporate slave; 3 an ambitious firstborn). Denudate and in personal recession, albeit on different levels of reality, this movie is my story.

Le Havre was my mint following an adventurous meal capped off by luxurious afters. I had it a day later - a Monday, a Manic-for-Movies Monday. It's vintage and rightfully a classic. Its story inspires the way a Dolphy movie would - all about the good, the kind, and the miserable. Complete with Messianic formula formed in the last two decades of the 20th century,  Le Havre incites feelings of nostalgia and old-school genius. It was a perfect pitter-patter of my yearly dose of French.

The 2015 French Filmfest finds me watching alone yet again. Two of my movie buddies have immigrated to places I have always wanted to be. Both enamored by their boyfriends, almost in a "put a ring on it" phase of their lives. Who knew my own life's plot twist would be me marching on without my supporting characters?  French films have consistently put me in what-ifs that go a natural direction to be eerily close to reality and tragically funny. They have tickled my artistic senses more than 253 likes a Facebook photo could sire. A highlight of my year I celebrate in the company of dark chocolate-covered almonds, Jamba Juice, and tofu chips. This once-a-year phenomenon I pine for as only French films can make beautiful sound exquisite, disorienting turn into imposing, and great, as a sated moviegoer would exclaim by film credits' end, look magnifique, or basically make filmmaking a synonym game of thematic clichés only the French could make headway in. 

All By Me

I'm in the minority for never liking this song 
but somebody told me it fits my vocal glove. 
Don't be mean on my first try. 

Besides, been a while since I last posted a selfie-deoke.

This is me doing All Of Me during my All By Me time.

The Lab Purgatory

Time is Gold. 

And if time were affordable by gold and I were the richest, I would use it to buy another time - the RIGHT kind of TIME. 

The right time to get out of what this truth-reaffirming article calls the "love purgatory."

The Absolute Tragedy Of Meeting The Love Of Your Life At The Wrong Time

[Most Striking Paragraph Award goes to:

"You meet other amazing, beautiful people with whom you want to work things out, but it never happens because something is off. He or she just isn’t _____ (fill in the blank with your person)."]

I am in it. Have been in it for 7-8 years now. Could be a curse, a maddening test or sheer reality of a lifetime I wish to get over with for the love of my life but never be over for I love life. The best person I "never" (read: 3 months = never) had. 

Time, I have learned, is such a mean thing. It punishes without a promise of recovery. It has the power to convert itself into a more insufferable form - space. Just when you thought you are free to love again, here comes time re-presenting itself as great distance; playing Moses, bullying two souls into opportunities they can only live on seas apart. We're talking Singapore and the Philippines here. We're talking another matter of when in the form of where. 

Have I tried closing in? Goes without saying. Were we within 5, 10 or 15 kilometers apart? Probably. Kilometers that could be replaceable with "impossibilities." This time talking about 5, 10 or 150 impossibilities. I prayed for it. Hard enough. But time, that mean thing in the guise of space, is harder to beat. By the time we were 1 kilometer/impossibility apart, probably in the same airport, we found ourselves bound for different spaces of geography and purpose. 

Giving up has never sounded this convincing. But I am better known patient. Or at least, have aged with greater amount of it. This isn't false hope. This is my war against time (and space) and I shall win it. The love of my life not totally the trophy; rather, our happiness together. Armed with my gold to afford time's biggest enemy - the RIGHT TIME - these intangible riches will have you within my reach. I can't wait to hold your hand (again)...in or out of this lab purgatory. 

One Year, Two Babies

This was 1 year ago.

It's their 1st birthday today.

I should remember; they are the only worthy residue of a retrospective wilderness.

Happy birthday Baby Aki and Baby Hidee.

Your (Grand) Daddy loves you so.

Right On

My humor. Spot-on.
From my favorite TV show. Come on.
I also sing. But not with as much entertainment value as these kings and queens of the throne.
This is exactly what the world needs. Coldplay in my zone.

I Don't Wanna Be Found

I don't wanna be found. 

I am not lost. 

I just wanna be alone. 

I am not lonely. 

True, I miss a lot of people in my life now. I'm itching to bring their asses to wherever I may be at or show up to whoever I'm kinda hiding my whereabouts from. But either fate won't let me or I can't. 

Such a guilty pleasure that I wish to make the last bit of very soon. For I wanna share the fruits of my labor with the people I love the most and have been sacrificing this much for. Where I'm at now is one of the fondest to extend or look back to when over. But I wanna stay tucked in this pragmatic space. 

In spades, this is my reality at its most enjoyable state. A little push further and I might even ditch my mobile phone altogether. After abandoning my social media pages, I am verging on leading a most fundamental form of life. That reeking of organic relationships and confluent introspections. Any point distant from superficiality. To know one as no one. To know oneself as no one's. To "know" over "no."

Of course, the inherent need to be with someone exerts itself to be important. The conjugal feeling of triumph has to be a unitive effort. Then there is the perfect time, which is an elusive parcel of a person who happens to be me. Such time, when it dawns at last, must be worth the climb back to the zenith of either gratification or atonement. 

I write weird. I start simple and end complex. Much like a firework that starts off a pulverization and blossoms forth a floridity. Mistakable for apotheosis but truthfully, a display of psychedelic impuissance. Well, we all know the form which this curlicue ends up being - ashes. Basic. Back grounded. I'm somewhere between this extravagance and occlusion. In that very puny, temporal phase of a decision of whether to lay floating through unfamiliar currents of "anywhere up here" or dive aground, remote to any inferences of felo-de-se, appressed to peace. This is certainly to replenish rather than languish. 

I am excited for my buoyant self to explode into the many pieces of realized dreams. That alone, never into one solid snowball of an ass most people have become on say, Facebook. 

I do want to be profound. 

Be Mine or Be Mime

All or Nothing.
Now or Never.
Take It or Leave It.

Were these cliched questions invented by power-tripping lords of dichotomy or hopeless romantics? 

Rent's song "Take Me or Leave Me" isn't up there in my head for years, for nothing, for no one. But I've outgrown the silliness of attributing every deciding moment in my heart's dealings to signs and schmaltz. 

Lemme contribute my own: Be Mine or Be Mime.

#CornyLikeFritos

Known Diversion Road

It took an unfailingly poor sense of direction to titillate the rest of my senses resting deep into my fondest memory halls. That hall is labeled "Cebu." Looking for my way out of Gaisano, my usual sharp decisions to choose the wrong lefts and rights turned out such a welcome  mistake on my lonesome trip around the country. "Gelatissimo" is the name of the place and "firsts" is the name of the memory lane. 

Dating as far back as 7 or 8 years ago, Champs (endearment term for my clique) went to Cebu for our FIRST flight out together. I think it was also my FIRST time to ride a plane ever. My FIRST time to die by gelato (FIRST & only time to indulge in choco liqueur) at the very FIRST branch of Gelatissimo in the Philippines. This gelato parlor has put me under such an irresistible spell that months later, I went back to Cebu for 2 principal reasons: to meet someone and to eat this one. That when the former reason failed, I had to fulfill the latter more than once. 

Oh this mental road block is a delightful diversion!

How Do You Spend Moms' Day Away From Your Mom?

Swap!

My very close friend, Kerwin, hails from Cagayan De Oro. I happen to be in CDO for a big project (in another blog topic y'all). What better way to seize myself out of this motherless day than landing in another mom's home. Kerwin's MOMSOT!

Kerwin's sisters were as surprised as Momsot. Imagine a celebrity prank raid at home.
Except I am no celebrity.

See, Kerwin wanted to return the favor so bad. Although he's in Manila, he isn't as capable to claw himself out of what he calls a "house arrest" thanks to summer's flu. Gruff, he instead rendered my mom a surprise harana on the phone. Talk about effort. I'd take any cacophonous call that comes straight from the heart any Mothers' Day. 

Mama's got a Smart number. Kerwin Globe.

Our mommas raised us well.

Alone and AGoT

I love Martin, George R.R.
He makes my lonesome stay in my hotel room, 
my first time in Mindanao, 
so worthwhile.

Life of the Rich and Cowboys

Yung ang mga kasama mo e anyayaman 
pero game mag-jeep just because they know things have to be accomplished 
and game mag-perya just because, at the end of the day, they feel accomplished. 
These are my kind of people.

#TeamKoboy #TheSimpljsticLifeOfTheRich

Straightforward, Straight to You

Can I say "I love you"? 

"So much" even if we're not meant to be?

Even if we've been eons friends, months lovers?

Even if you once pushed me away. 

And I did you just the same. 

Even if I know you feel the same way yet you have someone else, not my name. 

Even if together we're perfect, apart even more. 

Even if our timezones meet at one point yet our love is ensnared in days of yore. 

To My Number One (or Only) Blog Follower

I lurk you too ♥


This is the only entry with more words in the title than in the entry, I guess.

Something Always Brings Me Back To You

This is my iTunes' fault. 

For the first time in eons, the song I co-wrote about us shuffle-played.

I know you like lurking in this blog.

I like doing the same around your heart, in my head.

(I look hideous different in this picture)

Cue your friend's song:

In barged this phenomenal guy:

Of course, we like the same stuff. That's what makes you my all-time ideal. Not that I love myself that much. But fancy how we're so similar yet so different.

Why does your rendition of this song ring with your face in my head:

Oh what I wouldn't give...what I wouldn't give to...

#randomfeels

Losses' Learning

Things happen for a reason but that doesn't mean we should feel indebted to the mistakes and missteps or glorify the severity of undesirability in the past. 

Rather, we should ennoble our wisdom for the choices eventually proven right, instigated by the circumstances' disservice. 

No good heart would choose to be bad in order to attain what's good unless you are selfish or indurate. 

For every win derived from losses, we mustn't thank who we beat for falling short but our competency that stands alone.

I've Got AGoT

Licking before tasting all these Leaks

I'm a sucker for behind-the-scenes reels.

Giving me much life before THE life.

It's that same season of the year again.

Difference of four episodes ahead.

Whoever birthed Torrent must be as rich as those 

who did Google or Facebook.

#Destressor

Why

do you do this to me?
Why spare me this feeling beyond ordinary?
Why spare me some time?
Why spare me much dime?
Why do you make me look forward to each waking day 
with your knocks on this imaginary wall between December and May?
Why am I giving in when I shouldn't be?
And why do we keep in touch when the deal had to flee?
If this is exploratory, out of the acceptable zone, 
then I fear for this comfort (or your discomfort to the bone). 
This side of the wall I'm on is that of wilderness. 
But you make me smile, no less. 

Busy ako. Wag ka nga. 
Ako'y napapatula, ako'y napatulala.