Magic is her middle name.
And rarely, she plays by the rules of the game.
Rumbles of leaves sing to her everyday.
“Junk is art,” she used to say.
On the fragile phase, she hid.
Repeating “I am not a kid.”
Iridescent lights flash between her eyes above,
Encased by grief is the girl who has never been in love.

((suggested song with this vibe: Georgia by Vance Joy))
(Image from


Please break my heart.
Break my heart so that I will write about you. Break my heart so that the whole world will know who you are. Break my heart, love me once more, then leave and haunt me again.

Please tell me you love me.
Because I know that you don’t.

Please make me wait.
Make me wait for nothing. Tell me to be patient. Tell me that destiny chooses the best timing, and that one day we will have what we can call “ours”, so that I will have something to hope for.

Please keep me away from the world.
Don’t tell your mom about me. Don’t even mention my name. Hide me in the darkest corner of your mind, so that somehow, I will feel special—only thought of by you.

And one day when you realize how kind of a person you are for doing all of these sincerely, please come to me. I will be waiting for you.

I will be waiting for you to break my heart again.

(image source: WeHeartIt user @Pink_Slippers)

You are afraid.

“You are afraid to be beaten, to show up unprepared, and to lose in the only game you were winning in. You hate it. You suffer from a creative constipation and you don’t know how to get rid of it. It carries an unwanted feeling that itches inside, and the ticking of the clock reminds you that it can fly right between your eyes. You don’t want to give up. You don’t want to settle for less. Because you know you can do this. You know that when you stumble, you can rise up again. You don’t want to pressure yourself, so don’t. Everybody makes mistakes. Everybody learns the hard way. You need to set it all free. Remember the days when everything around you inspires you. Remember every little detail of your favourite song, or movie, or book. Remember everything that once inspired you. Because I’m telling you, if you don’t show your ass up tomorrow, or if you show your ass up tomorrow with an unfinished or not memorized speech, I can guarantee that you will regret it your whole life. Do things your future self will thank you for. Isn’t that what you used to tell yourself when you were feeling so lost? So go and do it. You cannot just sit there and wait for the perfect moment to happen to you. Go ahead and make it. Be resilient. Be confident. There’s no one else I know that can do this but you.”

Shizama Utami, “A letter I wrote to myself”

Out of shape

I miss my old self. I remember the days when it was raining and I had no umbrella, but I still felt happy and thankful for the rain. Now I wonder why. My world was multicolored and now I live in black and white. Nothing’s changed me entirely. I guess I’m still a bit shaken internally. It was only a few months ago and I was so eager to learn. I was an optimist on almost everything. I was contented and proud. I was great. Huh. I feel like I’m talking in an autobiography. I feel like I killed my old self, or at least somebody killed me and I let that happen. Nothing’s missing, but why do I feel so lost? When it rains, I feel so down even if I have an umbrella now. I guess the storm here is nothing compared to the storm inside me.

Have you ever felt this way too? Like, you’re lost at a point in life and you don’t know where to go? It feels like a dead end. Everywhere I look at, it reminds me of a distant place in my mind where I was once happy. And I’d remember that so much has changed. Then I’d get sad. Then I’d mourn over my old self. I haven’t been able to write recently. Well, I write often. But I don’t get to write about myself anymore. Writing was my passion but since I became part of the campus journalism club I wasn’t writing about myself anymore. My passion felt like a job I started loathe. I also can’t even stand my club adviser. She’s angry at us most of the time. And in worst cases, I would be the one she barks at. I guess I never expected that the writing life would be so dark. And that journ advisers would be THAT cruel. *journmates screeching in the distance*

A few months ago I was excited, because “now I’d be able to do what I love and I’d see my name on paper!” Quoting me, five months ago. But no. Hell NO. Since I joined that club I started worrying “often”. And for a person who worries a lot (plus that aforementioned “often”),  it was doomsday everyday. My friends remind me that I should relax after a tough day of an editor’s meeting plus a football training. But when I get home I receive notifications on my Facebook account from our editor-in-chief demanding the articles. Yay relaxation.

Classes on mornings, meetings after class, and training after meetings. When I get home it’s already 8pm and there’s still so much homework to be done and there’s still so much chores to be done and there’s still so much articles to be edited and there’s still so much that I forgot to keep track of my life. I want a break. Is this God’s way of telling me he doesn’t want me to be a writer someday? Because honestly, this is really depressing. In class hours I survive a day without actually learning anything. Literally. My butt gets tired of all the nonsense my teachers talk about the whole day while I’m forced to sit and listen to them. I used to love school. A year ago I had the best teachers. I actually learn new things everyday and they inspire me to be a better person than I was before. Now I wish I was the person I was before. I wish I still have the teachers I had last year. My classmates cheat. They cheat on exams, quizzes, and even in recitation for crying out loud. Then their names go on our Top Ten Students every quarter.

I don’t know if this is called a slump or something. Hey, don’t judge me for being a part of the school paper. Geez, I still have a grammar errors and misused lines. I’m not going to kid myself, some moments of this school year was good. But all I want is to be the “me” I was before. I’m still haunted by the real-life nightmares I encountered, but the me I knew is resilient enough to roll with them.

Can I still bring her back? Ang kalaban mo ay ang sarili mo. (A Filipino term which means “You are the enemy of yourself”). But is change possible in this situation? It’s like telling someone you don’t love them, but not promising anything. You might fall in love, or you might not. Who knows? This year started so good and I ended up wounded. I should just hope for the best.

(artwork by Hans Vandekerckhove)


We were the seasons together. Like roses, we bloomed with sophistication.
I trace my palm and remember our shared memories together.
I know this because I’ve felt it before.
It’s you all over again.

But there is the now.

Now is different.

Back then, I used to inhale the icy fog that surrounds us and exhale the things my emotions dictate me. How did I manage to treat you below zero degrees while having fragments of falling feelings for you? Crazy. One of them tells me that we were lucky to have each other, although “have” isn’t really the word for us. The truth is, there was never an ‘us’. But we had something for each other, something that was ours and something to fight for.

I can still clearly recall the weeks I kept avoiding you. My dilemma was swirling in an unending haze and I was caught up in it. I want you, but it seems complicated. When we pass each other at the halls, your eyes won’t set mine free. That’s when you do it. Your ‘look of home’. I felt guilty at my silent treatment, but hell, I wanted to snuggle up in your arms. Your sincerity, your protectiveness, and the look you used to give me when you were hiding your jealousy. Those are the things that I keep glued to my mind after all this time up to now when I stop and stare at you without you noticing.

But now, you have her.
I know you guys love each other, so I’ll pass.
However, I’m still thankful for the summer embers you ignited me with. Now I know that I can soar and touch the clouds. I know that someday I’ll miss your presence but when that time comes, you won’t be here with me. You’ll be with her. You’re the curtains that brush against my skin on a windy day. Once you touched my heart and felt my soul, you’re ready to leave.

But thank you. You became my hardest goodbye unexpectedly. Someday I’ll grow a garden out of all the seeds you planted upon me, and the seeds we planted together. And by the time everything is less complicated, I am never going to let you go again.


(painting by Clare Elsaesser)