There was this 15-year old hitting on me. It was kind of cute at first, but it felt really weird after a while. Persistent little thing.
Well, whatever.
Good night, lovelies.
In celebration of my blog’s second anniversary (which I missed, by the way), I’ll be giving away three of my precious books: Looking For Alaska by John Green, Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami, and Franny and Zooey by J.D Salinger to one lucky winner.
To join, just: follow kundiman and reblog this as many times as you desire.
Please be reminded that this is only open for people who live in the Philippines. I’ll announce the winner on 19th of June, 2012. Good luck! ;-)
My favorites. :)
(via kundiman)
Tonight,
I will crack my ribcage open
to make enough room
because heat makes things expand
and you, my dear,
keep my heart warm.
I wrote a song at the sound of your heartbeat.
Anonymous asked: Post a picture of yourself please. I have been following you for months but I have no clue what you look like.
Oh boy, oh boy. Messages like this scare me.
There’s nothing to see; I’m an average looking person. (I know the statement does not make sense at all, but let’s leave it at that).
To C,
When my heart becomes too heavy to hold and is on the verge of combustion, I bid you to slit it open. Let everything fall out: fine point pens, highfives, notebooks, French fries, aquarelle — give me some time to get used to it — a Saturday afternoon, The Smiths, go-karts, bear hugs, a Friday sunset, Emily Dickinson, thrift stores, flowers that say, “I dare you to love me.” — let me catch my breath, please — shards of broken glass, secondhand books, Nietzsche, first degree burns, lost-and-found booths, complex mathematical equations, and deep-seated scars.
Don’t be afraid. There are no ethical implications, no forms of silent communication, no poetic lyricism, no hidden symbolism —nothing to worry about—because this is evolution.
But if you’re still scared, then just drop my heart into the water. You would realize that it won’t hit bottom. There is so much to see. So let my heart float. Give me a moment to awaken its gills, to trace the arc of my back, to savor the dive, to learn how to exude grace on water. I think this is where I belong.
And you, you will always be my anchor.
To C,
On the bed, I lie.
It is evening as I write. The rain has conquered the heat, but still hesitant as ever. Oblivious to the romantics waiting for it to pour itself to their fragile bodies—to make a fairy tale scene.
The world may be moving slower or faster depending on how you feel, but when asked me to reconsider, you must know that I did.
If I see your reflection walking away from me, I would not cry. Equally, if I see your reflection crying in pain, I would not show a hint of remorse. I refuse to make any action based on what I perceive; Instead, I will wait for you to comment. Things are not always what they seem.
It does not matter if your words can turn blue litmus paper into red—know that I will still listen. By now, you must know that you have not only wrapped me around your little finger—I am clinging to it, fighting gravity so as not to fall. I am hanging on to your every word.
If you go back to the start, you would notice that I never intended to be truthful, nor did I ever intend to lie—merely evasive of speaking what can be shown.
So do not blame the butterflies, or the squirrels for what you are feeling. Instead, call the elephants and focus on the slow steps they make as they move around the world. Their body mass does not matter; what matters is their unwavering patience—so constant that it can be measured with a pendulum.
A day crawls unnoticed but again, it does not matter. In Gestalt they say that the whole does not equal to the sum of its parts, so I say nothing has changed.
I have no need for amplification because what I offer is in its rawest state. And I wait for you to grill me with questions as you wait for me to acknowledge your presence.
There is no need for me to explain the implications of every action. Whether I remain still or I fly and crash like a winged creature, I will always come back to you. You know how well-accustomed we have become of these encounters.
So, cheers for three years. Cheers for three years.
Cheers for three years.
I once posted this piece, only to delete it after a while. I think I’m ready now.
Anonymous asked: What is your favorite Murakami book?
Sputnik Sweetheart.
Maybe this really isn’t his best work—scratch that, it really isn’t. Some say that the characters are flat and uninteresting, that the whole thing is a forgettable piece of literature, and that it is just a second rate version of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.
Maybe all these things are true. But you asked for my favorite, and I’ve always been partial to this one—for sentimental reasons. So there you go.
How about you, dear anon?
Now it is raining.
I am heading out
to catch some words
and fill the hollow
of my collar bones.
All for you.
Last summer—
Not knowing what to say,
I wandered around the city,
stopped by the post office
to mail you an empty envelope.
Anonymous asked: You have a beautiful mind, I like you.
I refuse to act coy. So I’m just going to say thank you, thank you.
You made my heart warm.
You will introduce yourself the next time you leave me a message, yes? Thanks.
You are visual poetry.
I guess that’s my awkward way of saying that you look really nice today.
Oh, but even stars die. Stay right here.
“I-I’m not really good at this—talking, I mean. I’ve always been better at writing, but I’ll try to-“
“No, no. Don’t. Don’t even try. You have your way with words. I know you would probably just say something that would make my heart warm without even intending to do it. You don’t have to say anything. The only thing I need to know is that you’re okay with this, with us, right here. We don’t even have to put a label on it. I need to know that you wouldn’t shut me off. I need you to stay.”
To C,
I have regressed to a state I cannot define. I have feelings that have yet to be categorized. The only tangible thing you can find are the cracks in my voice to match the cracks you made on my walls. Forgive me; my words lack the grace you always possess, and I can only offer lines so elementary-phrased that I am tempted to forgo writing this.
My friends asked me what I have been doing lately only for me to reply with, “The usual.” Inquired if I have written new stories or poems, but I had no idea what to say to that. Lately I have only been evasive and fearful—scared of the fact that I might find your essence in every word I write.
Because I miss you desperately.
So this is me being honest—me telling you that you left an aftertaste in my mouth that has stuck for weeks. This is me telling you that you are the radiator of my rib cage that keeps my heart warm. This is me telling you that I’m running out of words, because I cannot encapsulate what I feel within the confines of a language. I will try anyway.
I adore you ardently and endlessly.