These Roads Go On Forever

One day I vow to quit it with Dashboard Confessional snippets. That won't be today though.

It's been a busy couple of weeks (years?) and all I've got to show for it is an increasingly bad mental state. So much so that I had to take a day off in the middle of the week to keep from, well, you know. So how did I spend this temporal oasis?

First, spent a good chunk of the day spending good money on good books at the new Fully Booked. Fables 3: Storybook Love and The History of Love. Sense a pattern here? Then got a legal copy of Heavier Things because I get guilty like that. And topped it off with the Bianca King Manifesto mag. Just because.

Next, finished half of Storybook Love while having coffee inside said bookstore. While eavesdropping on some college kids working on some project. Okay, ogling.

Then, caught the end of this season's first Ateneo-La Salle game. How apt, I thought. Then Ateneo won (w00t), and the analogy stopped there.

Then had dinner at that place again. with friends. Pork with some cheese in it. Love. And of course, cake. And then promises of doing all this again sometime this century.

Then hooked up with tickets for The Simpsons Movie and had Springfield-sized fun. And I didn't have to watch it alone, unlike last time.

And through all this thoughts were swimming in my head. Not very good ones. I will share just one:

You're right. I expect too much out of life.

...

Okay I wanted to say something more. How empty this all feels.

This Is As Social As I Get Now

Today hurt like fucking hell. More than yesterday.

Just Hear This And Then I'll Go

Our family buried Lolo last Sunday. And it didn't really hit me until the last couple of hours I was there.

It pains me how I have nothing to write about it. Anything that will come out here will sound fake, rehearsed, premeditated.

I used to kid that the reason I never go to the province is because they ask me the same effin questions: what year am I in and why don't I eat vegetables. And maybe that's why I remember very little, and that's one thing I know I'm good at. (Maybe I'm just good at it for the useless stuff.) Because I spent all my time there wishing I wasn't.

I remember he used to work at the air base, and picked up a few words, habits, culture while he was there. And he didn't talk much. Which was probably the only thing I could relate to. I remember the warm dark nights getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, wishing I was back in Manila.

I remember in the old house, before ash floods claimed it, that in one of the rooms there was a sketch of him done by my dad. It was pretty good, too, I have to admit. I try to imagine my dad sketching his dad. Making portraits isn't easy; it's not like taking a picture or tracing a magazine cover. You actually have to know the person you're trying to capture. Pay attention to all the details with all your senses.

I should start paying attention.