Happiness TG

We serve the paternal grandmother. My hands got bloodied twice in picking the slightly cooked remains of swine in a deep bucket. Despite the never-ending manual labor, my disposition was light in default. In addition, a murderer helping the paternal grandmother in maintaining order is considered a long time friend. I remembered I had to organize a set of cassette tapes in the living room while the rest of the family members tend to the poultry and fruit-bearing trees outside the house.

We live in one room, and we are obligated to join paternal grandmother's occasional feast. However, we couldn't get maternal grandfather, who was cleaning an unborn child's urn, to join the family table. So we decided to rebel and pursue an outing in an amusement park. Despite this idea, my mother, who was short but beautiful, decided not to join us in our plans. Suddenly, as we determine our plans with finality, the murderer barged inside our room throwing clothes we're supposed to fold and iron. He demanded for paper, scissors and pen. Upon seeing what he wanted, he demanded assistance in keeping up with lottery numbers algorithm. I told him I am unable to understand what he wanted even though I wanted to. He spat in his eyes and spread it in my bloodied hand. Not understanding his intensions, I got sad. When he attempted to clean my hand from the mess that he made, I realized he was attempting to console me. I smiled and invited him to our plans for an outing.

We ran up towards the ticketing outlet, attempting a competition on who wins first. I told him I was jesting, and we burst out laughing since we knew we had all the time in the world. We didn't even realize if we're supposed to buy an amusement park ticket or lottery ticket or both.

G(e)iger

I sleep in the quarters of five that functions as a portal to the safest workaround. The outdoors of old Tallinn is plagued by colossal Freudian monsters. Just as how it is for others, I go out to continue my becoming when I see a sly colossus in the form of a tongue. Nevertheless, at one side of the intersection, Donnabelle/Julie appears and smooth-talks her way out of the tongue, licking her in the process. I use the silhouette she creates as camouflage to turn to the corner where our quarters is situated. As I get inside, I rearrange the beddings and take the spot farthest to the door of ingress and pretend to sleep beside Eunice, who is always sleeping. I cover my head with fleece.

As Julie/Donnabelle enters, the door of ingress remains ajar despite Josephine's attempts to close it. The tongue checks and asks if the occupants that went in are sleeping, as they ought to be. Seeing my seemingly sleeping form, it stops its inquiry and departs.

Later, Lindsey, a non-occupant, knocks and requests that we grant her access to the quarters. In exchange, Josephine requests insider information about a test that we fear, from which Lindsey discloses as short as two pages. She enters and immediately proceeds to open the door of egress, which leads to an inner part of a castle a few feet away from the ground. However, we see and hear her demise as the eyeless monster, coming from the porch, constrict her body to pieces.

The gore causes disorder and the fluid blood monster becomes curious. Suddenly, the door of egress keeps opening, and I instruct Evangeline to keep it locked. The blood monster peeps with piercing stare, and Christina attempts to speak with it in Latin. It partially works, but she gets tired.

I feed the smallest brain inside the quarters with raw diet, but it fails to register the diet as food. As I struggle to support the brain for strategy, it jovially wilts. A blindfolded non-occupant barges inside from the door of ingress, explaining the terrorism transpiring outdoors. Knowing her proper disposition, the non-occupant gets out using the door of egress. But there is no longer a semblance of safety outside.

Mirrorman

"Did he let you do it? Did he let you appeal? Did he? Did he?" The mirrorman was agitated. His reflection was starting to be distorted into a dilapidated mosaic. This was not how it was supposed to be guaranteed. He was getting apprehensive and demanding, but he could never deviate away from the frames of the mirror as he was bound there forever. He fidgeted, knowing he could only see his wholeness on the other side, which the janus-faced being naturally possessed.

"The recoils of the past, it did not move me." The janus-faced being reasoned, standing in front of the mirror where the mirrorman was exposing his reflection. He was steady and weary, but the mirrorman was walking back and forth in between the limit of the frames, unaware of his disconnection to the being. The being was in deep thought and showing indifference to the cynicism the mirrorman was showing. It was not resonating. It was not bouncing back to him, so the mirrorman absorbed it. All of it.

The room was filled with antique furniture and contrasting dullness. It was convenient, an ideal setting. The navy blue cashmere carpet ejects the crimson pint of the walls. The glass chandelier was expressing its darkest lightness. The colorful fishes in the luxurious aquarium were defeating one another, forcefully moving to own the only territory, however loose the atoms in the water may be. Their discourse was at the center of the lesser side. They remained still.

Tonight, there were four patterns.

Ingrata

Today I felt the effects of poverty.

When I was murdering the malnourished poultry, the only ones left for produce, the source of financial capacity, when I thought I had to prevent the little ones from leaving the inside, cracking their skulls with the door as I try to open and close the same with absolute intensity because they could go outside with simple negligence from me, as if I took the responsibility of looking over them when I, myself, was in varying degrees of self-doubt. I had no intentions to respect the dead as I maintain the posture of what redundantly may or may not be what I want or do not want to be. My father's face was all it took to realize that what I did was a mistake because we have nothing, nothing else.

When I was avoiding an enormous beast with two of its almost normal siblings outside, where the beautiful lime berries grow and where I burn all the things that no longer deserve the merit of existence, as it was common sense to avoid the same as someone who was not an adult, an immature feral object, locking myself inside along with other little ones whom I treat as deserving and not deserving of what may be called protection, letting the adults go to work at the limited outside just as how it was signified to be by custom. I was forlorn and apprehensive that I always open the door that I kill the weaker ones, as if unaware of what I call danger to the blameless and those who do or do not do without discernment. I was so afraid to do the simple task of feeding the biggest threat as I was in between being the weak and the worker, unable to contribute or aid albeit slightly, assuming it was right, that it might wake up, even without signs of animosity, and swallow my surprisingly undeniably protected becoming of nothing, nothing else.

When I was struggling to go back, streets were polluted with shit and the rotten and, as if alive, always wary of impending accident and accepted carelessness, but the buses were so reckless when driven, full and ready to hit and run as I crossed the streets, but I had no money that I had to walk in quite an unreasonable distance to what I unfortunately call home that I dismissed the ordeal as ergonomics and forget that I was doing it as a chore to move without a place to go to and from the beginning. I walked through the fucking dirt and mud of cultured nature while taking the road farther away from everything with my knees and palms just to let it cross my mind that I have nothing, nothing else.

Notional Ekphrasis 2

I never look at people anymore. I lost interest entirely, and I feel that the detachment is clearly becoming a habit. I am skeptical whether to take it as negative or the otherwise because I prefer it at the same time I know I should invest in socializing as it will do wonders when I pursue my career, if ever I am given the chance. Do I do what I don't want to do?

Perhaps there is a way to reconciliation, but it is something that I still have to find out.

Screws Inside

There was an ill taste when the massacre was ordered as the nature of the world. The knife cut the vital organ of the mother, who fell and died immediately thereafter . It served as the sign of the burning; and people evacuated with the savage mammals. When co-existence became unbearable, people in groups of unfamiliar relation reposed in narrow and almost spaceless rooms. The initiation took place. A brother was  lifted by an unknown force, and his neck was cut by gravity. The air was heavy and threatening, as the room continued to bleed with the sister. The father trespassed without malice, and he was possessed by an anger that feared all others. It attacked each entrances, destroying the barricade of privacy. There was change, but the eerie remained. There was always a hunt, and it will not stop until in corrupts the peace of mind.

Notional Ekphrasis 1

I was taught be my mother to be frugal. At the same time, I was taught by father to be lavish and generous. Both not only portray what each literally meant; each resulted with a conditioned discipline. 'Sometimes,' I am attracted and then eventually submit to consumerism - the technical and most accurate term for this scenario that I am about to berate. It feels as if I have to perpetually represent myself based on the standards set by the pursuit of capital. With this, I have to ensure to myself that I should be updated with it, and possess (there seems to be no necessity to own) the same update at the earliest possible time it was made public. And, it's not even the news.

This is where the recession, not in (only) the economy, but in the mind, starts. The concept of favorable recognition no longer resides in an effort to sharpen plain intellect, on developing how we think, respond, signify, and collect our words for proper expression and discourse; it now seeks to feed the empty tunnel of the objectified appearance. Like excessive humor, it relaxes our productivity to its minimum, if not being outright nil. It goes in and out just the way a garbage is disposed. It drills the skull with the brain where there is no longer balance, but just a hollow nothingness without its philosophical connotations.

What's worse, it attracts even those who do not have the capacity to maintain the habit to the point of misuse. It is a formulated distraction that quietly advertises impracticality. I do not say that a momentary escape from the ideal is absolutely undignified, but when it evolves into constancy is where the weariness begins to exist. This is not categorical decency, and should never be.

We take pride that we are no longer primitive, and that is to be glorified indeed, but we forget the basic is what we only need or even just want to survive; that we utilize what we discover not for convenience, but to seek more challenge. It is unending, or ends with a mere thought of 'Oh, I see' whilst harboring the same as a learned practice. If we misplace our sense of what we deserve, we lose the opportunity to experience what should naturally come out as fruitful.

Consistent to this blog, this is raw and unfiltered. I have yet to hasten my ideas about this, among other things. Should I say I probably would not, and no longer persist in proving the point I have just thought about above? I admit I lose them, ideas, to which my subconscious is probably conflicted in either keeping or neglecting the same until I get another or get preoccupied with what I meant with 'sometimes.' I am supposed to study, so this is the end.

Untitled

So what if I kill another?
In the mind, the body, the soul, the gut
After all,
We merely recede, progress, and remain
True to our origins
And, disappear

Not-Defunct Engine

The man escapes like a rotten rogue around the high lights of the night sky. The clay is starting to mutate, to control the elevation and movement of the inflatables. The world, in its grave weight, suffocates in helium; the man unknowing.

The man paces to the occupied modernity. He violates the knowledge and pleads for forgiveness for what sin the refused tried to clean. Libra moves. The knowledge is dead. Time altered in persistent form. The clay forms in solidification, reformed in blue heaven. There is a tick tock. Finding the death of waterlessness and not-purpose lying, the clay removes the illumination of the world. The man senses.

The man departs from the brooding ignition of obscurity. He rejects the moon and pleads for forgiveness for what sin the refused tried to clean and stops, unknowing. No heartbeat is heard.

I am man.

I was awakened and found my body healed from injury in an underwater sanatorium. I breathed into the water, feeling the familiar sense of comfort in lost element. I was comfortable to have been placed in a setting. The entirety was made of clay in blue heaven.

As the white door opened, the sanatorium, it seemed, was empty. Outside the chamber where I was from, the ceiling was beyond sight. The windows were unreachable and detached from its purpose, but the light from the exterior provided unnerving light. There was neither internal logic nor coherence. There was no access, only open attachment. When I looked outside, it was advanced in gradual diffusion. The unnatural was there, but non-existent. I was alone.

I ran towards the spiral stairway, ascending. The top was the exit and entrance. There were doors made of different material, appealing in its presence. I remained still in the middle of the corridor. It was dull and cold and I felt alive. I remembered a distant dream. The underwater nil, I breathed air.

Birdcage

I was in my school uniform, walking through the side street beside the dilapidated form of a garden where flowers were blooming with striking color despite the leaving of afternoon. My backpack was heavy and the black birdcage I was holding was loosely being waved back and forth my blameless hand. The bird in it was struggling and dying.

A moment of delayed realization set my senses that I was grasping a thing with life. Inclined to deduction, the door of the cage tore open upon hitting the cement and unintentionally abused the bird out, lying on its stomach. The degree of gravity remained unresponsive, the way it was supposed to be.

I bent down and gripped it tight, anxiously in thought of preventing it to fly away. Around the bend, it was still then it shook. I held it relentlessly. Its face of sadness prevented my conscious from progressing. There was a constant struggle, but nobody won.

Mudhouse

"It is not well."

The new born dog named Charlie was having a heart failure. It could barely breathe on my hands. It was fragile and shaking. In a room, the bed was creaking with the movements of panic and agitation to the existing predicament that only has one fix, but cureless. There was only pity.

The three of us decided to call a former veterinarian - the only one we knew. With urgency, we asked for it to be operated. There was a sudden illustration of destination and forced hope. Once an agreement was established, we left it, attempting to forget.

Without the marks of it in our mindfulness as time naturally paced forward, barking was heard from the outside. We opened the door and it was there, waving its tail. It grew up, healthy and stitched, unrecognizable and persevering, unaware of changed assurances and precedence. Then there was a selection.

I woke up beside a cold wall inside a house filled with mud. The house was divided by metal screen - weak, hard, and threatening. There was darkness, but it laid peacefully sleeping on the other side.

I tried breaking the metal screen open with my body and finish the regret inflicted upon my leaving. After several use of force, it woke up gently and did the same thing on its side. It was mimicking my motivation, but not my remorse. There was neither in nor out to this filth. What I didn't notice was a breaking that created a hole on my lower right. Its presence was liberating and unobtainable. The routine was countlessly continued without thought and prejudice.

It was an obligation.

Burnt Skin

I went to an institution to submit documents. The sun was warm. I saw people loitering around the door where I am exactly directed to, in a perfect line. I knew that I was late... and I forgot my finances.

I went around and saw an old comrade to ask on the whereabouts of this setting. Safe with a green umbrella, he tried animating distances by lapping around the building we were in. I was feeling the radiation and heat from the sun was too much, but I still resorted to being near my comrade as the entirety was foreign to me. Strangers were animating themselves around with the assurance of their own progress. He started to point towards the north where a Buddhist temple resides. Still, I did not get the direction he was motioning so we decided to walk further. Then we saw two of our unlikely comrades coming in from an dark underground staircase and motioned that we needed a ride. I did not get the verbal agreement, but I felt confident. It was uncertain if I made it through the ordeal.

I was home. I felt that the skin on my arms were burning - they were scorched black. Debris of my skin were falling. Thinking of the the pain was unbearable as I was starting to feel it, but the expression benign.

I woke up. I was sleeping on my favorite red sheets and saw on the other side of the window bare the same color, despite a different being settling in there. I woke up, but I can't move. The television was showing animated comics to cover the other vignettes I must not notice. I woke up. I was sleeping on blue sheets. I got a hold of the blue net I was hiding and covered a tunnel developed on the side of the room. I felt fear, but I didn't dare to elaborately sense it. I wished, but I couldn't wake up thrice more. The whiteness of the room was blinding, my eyes were repeatedly retracting my view.

Alarms

We were homeless.

We tried to stay around the corners of a cemented wretched corridor, away from nature, away from surreality. I settled to stay beside a wooden door with red batteries beside it - as if a warning, as if it was forbidden to explore. I lingered to observe this bizarre existence. Across the door was a shabby home where a huge family resides, but it was the only one closest to nature. Despite its apparent poverty, it was healthy, soiled and it smelt of rain. The earth was stinging and the winds were banging their wooden window. They sat silently and slept freely covered with filthy tattered blankets. I saw their door opened and closed abruptly.

I knew it was a new day.

I stayed on my settling, unpeaceful. The red batteries were lit and I anticipated its explosion. But it didnt; it only made a sound striking as an alarm. I evacuated and went into the left and broader side of the setting with my own family, afraid of witnessing this consequence. This inevitable apprehension.

A cat and a man came in from the catastrophe to start investigating. I felt like a criminal and borrowed my mother's perfume, sprayed it on the entirety of my body so that I wouldn't smell the same. The cat asked each of the evacuees before they left. Then it started running and it captured me, taking me with them.

We ended up inside the door. The soil was stinging in the vacancy - they were keeping what could be left of the natural. I was hanged on the door as they started mentally torturing me. I told the truth, but there was another alarm and they ran. I shook myself off and entered another door inside. I saw whiteness and a machine. Seated beside it was a man, who beamed and smiled, acknowledging the fact that he saved me. A comrade came in from another door I've been and smiled as well. Then there was another door way out to the corridors where two other comrades entered. We decided to ease our hunger.

There was a fancy industry outside. Inside, pink laces and gold were everywhere. I wanted a beautiful cake of cheese and sandwich. I realized my mother was working there and asked me what I wanted. I repeated my preference once more. Then it was taking too long. I had the sudden urge to drift away from sanity. When it came, I devoured everything.

My mother and I went out and saw the death of the outside, of nature, of the sea. Two islands were seen where the only industries remain, heavily protected. We were overpowered.

The Wounds that Heal

It was the perfect scenery. It was the highest order of the waters; yet it was still and dying. The sunset was cool in all its probable shades and the boats were dancing gently. I witnessed it in pain of constraints, the filth of the room building all over my being. The glasses mistreated my pleasure and I couldn't find my memory. So I cut my hair.

I disengaged myself from this old setting. I swam to the other side of the swamp and saw chickens running away sensing my existence. I did not grew weary and I wandered. It was then that I saw the luscious greens and a tree, stricking with its incompetent heigh and nonetheless powerful presence. I did not dare touch it.

As I walked around the remains, behind all the I have seen was a broken molded wall. I sighted inside a beautiful garden of flowers and it was filled with flying bees above. There was a bridge on the left side of it, grassed and wealthy, as if seducing my will to cross and get inside the old house.

I tried crossing the garden, but the bees attacked me. They did not sting, however, they tried passing through my solid body unsuccessfully. I felt their push on the side that I could not see. It was unfortunate that I did not have the chance to see the old house.

Aratilis

Naghahanda ang katauhan sa magaganap na paglaya ng hangin ng kabihasnan. Nasira ang katahimikan nang magsimulang tumakbo ang mga bata, naghahanap ng kalayaan, gahaman sa pagiging bata. Malinis ang probinsiya, ngunit nasaksihan ko ang pagkayamot nito sa sariling kalagayan.

Bilang sentro ng lugar, sinipa ng isang bata ang puno ng aratilis, daan upang malaglag ang mga maliliit na pulang prutas nito. Nagtakbuhan silang muli sa iba't ibang direksyon habang nagmamasid ako sa gilid, nauubos ang lakas sa kanilang eksistensiya. Nang mapuno ng gumugulong aratilis ang lupa, naranasan kong magutom at hindi maiwasang mainggit dahil wala akong karapatang sumali.

Pinulot ng mga bata ang ilang aratilis. Walang tigil. Pinagkakain nila ito, kapansin-pansin ang kanilang kaligayahan at kainosentehan, walang kaalaman sa aktuwal na paggawa.

Nawala ang lahat. Hindi ko na maaaring pulutin ang mga nahulog na aratilis kaya't sinipa ko ang puno upang makatikim. Sumakit ang paa ko nag-antay ako ng kaganapan. Nalaglag ang isang malaking aratilis, sobrang laki na hindi ko kayang ubusin. Ni hindi ko man lamang nalasahan ang katamisan. Hindi ako nakakain at sadyang nawala ang kabihasnan.

Decoding Ends

The aliment was neither ready nor fresh
it was cureless to wait with quasi-aching
disengaging the limit to madness from liberation
however the time was boundless
aligned to the accepting force
where antagonism is not the other side of fairness
there was a toxic malfunction making the grounds weary
of stepping being unbecoming
accompanied by peculiar spirituality
taking response to disconnected discipline
the story was invalid and inevitable
I tried to sit through the ordeal of wanting and needing,
the table projecting the ineptness of its uselessness
but the living remorse was greater than the disposition
then my generation went foul.

Mort

I sat near the tidiest table, attempting to depart from the ridicule. I was in a market, a filthy variety with stands selling morose food. The setting submitted to its weakening.

The nourishment began when the consideration was elaborated. I ate what was offered in the table.

I was trying to redeem its value, but I was neither less nor more than the exposition.

Red Cabinet

The room was clear. It expresses the deepness only the oriental possesses. It was almost afternoon before sunset and the entirety was expected to produce movements.

The blank cabinet was about to be painted with red and designed with spring plum tree. I woke up with two beings designated to the task wholeheartedly. The first thing I saw was the transformation for the better and it was extremely beautiful. I felt home as it was bound to be completed.

Away from Heaviness

I was the only one who survived the first war. I remembered wearing the shabbiest clothing while standing in front of the disaster the conflict had caused. The smog was close, unbearable in its appeal to difuse the graphic gore. It didn't feel like a lost cause, but an extreme helpnessness of solitude overpowered the degree of disposition it expressed.

It was different in the second war.

I wasn't to be defensive, but submissive to the flow of both sides however I am committed to the other. We were hiding behind the curtained glass building on the upper floor, peeking outside through the grounds and the wealthy market on the left. I was lying down on my back, facing away from the directive, as if diseased. The others were observant, eager to defeat the opponent. I was ready to be shot down by the uniformed enemy in aggression. I was ready to die. There was no purpose. The environment wasn't changing.

Suddenly, deviation from the established situation emerged - the mass started to create noise. Holding every bit of power in voices and force, they rallied against the market. The noise was intolerable. I was starting to nauseate. It was a perfect diversion.

I looked at my closest comrades, eyeing every bit of movements. I looked particularly at one of my usual companion and the dog. Beside me, I felt there was a need to bid goodbye. I was not holding any gun.

Holding the triggers attentively, the entirety was ready to fight. One comrade fired the gun. It broke through the curtained glass to the upper floor of the market; it erupted a huge explosion and destroyed almost half of the market's welfare. It did not only let the mass ran and panick away, but it welcomed the guards of the market going out with guns firing right at our direction.

This time, it was decided to fight bare - the curtains were removed; the glasses claimed our transparency. We were cornered on the ground.

I refused to lie still, idle, and borrowed a gun from a comrade, who obliged while thinking how some weapons exist around this setting. I saw two guns over the cartridge on my side as I avoided direct hit. I pulled the trigger of the one with the smaller bullets; it was still extremely big nonetheless. It was too big, I could not fire it.

We were outnumbered. I tried to shoot of what was left of the market as I moved and hid away from the gunshots, I managed to save a black hummingbird. As I fired, it shook the whole foundation of the market, its system dying. But it was too late, a bomb was thrown at us.

A comrade passed it to me, as if giving me the responsibility of its disposal. I did not threw it up. I threw it wearily on my side, letting death in easier.

As it exploded, I could feel my insides breaking, being blown away into pieces. It was blank and instant.

I woke up on my original corner of sleeping, being woken up by the beautiful singing of the black hummingbird that I saved. It was trying to reach me through the screen of the door. It was trying to let me touch itself. I felt peaceful as I shared solace with it. I did not have to protect myself for I have already died.

Only Home

There were two houses that exist on the dead, dried marshes replacing the accustomed setting of origin. The second was his, forlorn and disconnected from the standard; the first, was from the owner, almost the same with the interior and exterior, only exhibiting the facade of power with right humility. The houses were made from the dark spectrum; old and ragged furniture present the condition. One blatant sameness could be seen inside, in front, behold two bulky upholstery in different faded prints for welcoming appeal. The entirety of the background was supposed for harvest, but the tragedy of its inability to produce growth reflects its decaying occupation.

The plan was to visit and rest in the second house, with him and the owner, along with few certain usual companions. Regarded as a habit, it was a trivial demeanor of entering. The two men were already staying in the second house before our attendance were confirmed, their assumed profession lax in submitting to its function to its actual process, preparing for the tradition. I, along with two usual companions, sat on the couch and revived the peace of mind. The carelessness of it all, disregarding the natural apprehension of upcoming sounds the same time as being absorbed with the faithful discourse erupting amusement and proper seriousness, announced the reality of unwelcomed appearances of those that were not a part of this belongingness.

Four or more had arrived, neither a usual companion nor a common comrade, intruded inside with the manner of releasing the sense of being invited to this act. We had not touched anything aside from receiving each of the others' sensibilities in verbal expression; the strangers went over the table by the door and started to drink and eat, as if commemorating their constituency. It distorted the phenomenon, the misbehavior resulted to the comeuppance of secrecy, disengaging the original format. It was then that I noticed that he returned to the first house.

It was his supposed house, but was just not. I went out, followed the path that connected the two houses, and entered the first house. It felt rather smaller than the other one, but I saw him on the couch, lying and contemplating. It was painful to see the irrelation and irrelevance; I realized we didn't actually had time of our own as it was diversified by this order. I lowered myself and held his hand, put it on my beating heart... to feel home.

"I surmise it is the time to move, you have been preoccupied by yours," he said. Looking at me, it was the first time that this has been represented by this; I have felt love to the entirety, the exposition represented it clearly. I have felt home and thus, I smiled. But it was time to go home, the beginning. This was how progression was realized, I was ready to go back.

Followed by the usual companion outside, I went out as he followed. He smiled as well, as I awkwardly faced this deviating familiarity and bade goodbye. I called him in a peculiar version of his name, with its uniqueness, and ran gracefully through the white mud, through the grasses and to the cemented hindrances. I felt reincarnated and alive.