And just so you know, this journal is 80% private, 15% custom, 5% friends-only. :)

9/14/09

My watch reads 7:04pm. I stand near the intersection of Dian and Buendia as I wait for the next jeepney. The city's hustle and bustle stir my senses. I see traffic lights, buses speeding by; hear a honk, somewhere; get a whiff of urban smoke. I become hyper-sensual, that I cannot take them all down on paper. My mind is still soaked with physics, space, time, relativity... All thanks to Stephen Hawking and the great philosophers and physicists. I AM DRUNK WITH A BOOK. Aries, this is your fault.

Never in my life have I felt this relaxed. The intersection of Dian and Buendia is a seemingly uncomfortable place, but standing here beats curling up in bed on a rainy Sunday morning. I don't know why. I could shed happy tears... now. Now. Now. As I re-realize the endless possibilities of life, and of the world.

I feel like the universe is truly my home.



..........

Oh, those minutes were divine. I don't know what struck me. I could only look back and wonder...

Humdirumdumdum.

It is 2:44.
two fours.
eight., or ten?

PM.
Petit Monde.
Prime Meridian.
Prime Minister.

It is 2:45.
And I could go like this forever and a day.

PM.
Postmortem.

The taste of Oreo lounges on my mouth: tongue, cheeks, ngalangala. Is Grimace a taste bud? Maybe. Perhaps perhaps perhaps, Cake? Perhaps the taste of Oreo DoubleStuf is on my teeth too, but I won't know until tongue grazes them. To graze is to touch lightly. The teeth can not taste. Woe are the members who cannot distinguish spicy from bland. Woe is them, the teeth. Portfolio making makes me v crazy and mad...womanly. I type here, incoherent as a piece of RHCP lyric. Acknowledgment is condonation, is a word invented. It is 2:52AM, and I have to wake up at 6:00AM.

It's not fucking PM. It's AM.

AM.
Ante Meridian.
A Madwoman.

I AM.

Before I took my last collegiate breath, I turned to Death, and he described to me the sky:

The sun is retiring. The sky turns into a dark gray with blotches of silvery cream haphazardly smeared over the expanse. The clouds are sailing like the failed smoke rings in slow-mo.

Darkness eagerly embraces our shoulders.

* * *
A heavy humid air hangs over your heads;
it is a burden:
a foreboding of your fickle future.
* * *

...