Curiosity Killed the Cat

KATRINA ZABLAN, 23 Registered Nurse from Marikina, Philippines ♡ Let's get lost.

[katrinaherself]

Patricia Julienne

“Hello, I’m PJ!” says my pretty new roommate the moment I arrive, and this was the first time I met her. She has that girl-next-door aura, clad in a bright smile, and I’ve concluded from the get-go that she is one of those social butterflies. I wasn’t wrong in the very least. It is easy to get intimidated with someone like PJ, who is obviously brought up with class; her demeanor and poise a dead giveaway. But her warmth helps people gravitate towards her, for she is a natural charmer - that of which is most of the time her greatest asset, but could be the prelude to her downfall to people with prying eyes and a sliver of malice.

It seems like a written law that no person can have everything. And those who do, would fall victim to people’s envy. But PJ has it all. Of course she’s not perfect, but if we quickly define what is inclusive to her having it “all” - a beautiful face, above average intellect, and good interpersonal skills, it is a no-brainer that she is a quite a catch. So it may come as a bit of a stretch to say that underneath all that, what’s hidden is not a rotten soul, but a vulnerable human being motivated by sunshine, faith, and magic in the mundane. A pure heart, a luxury these days. Broken in some areas, hardened in some, but remained pure in the midst of every evil.

I for one basked in her light. She is thoughtful, always generous of her blessings, always wanting goodness to prevail. She isn’t the type to let others see her share of sufferings. That to me was a revelation to the core of her character. I saw who she is when things aren’t going grand. But she can work up a smile the next day, even after lonely nights and the curse of sinkholes. She might slip a bit sometimes, but doesn’t everyone else? She is a work-in-progress. 

In order to unload, she doesn’t keep grudges. She readily wipes the slate clean to give people a fair chance when she gets wronged. And she deserves due credit for that. I spiritually connect with her because we share this deep sense of mercy. It  can get tiring to be the one to always take the high road, that is why it is less traveled indeed. So if you are to admire one thing about her, let it be this - she is sincerely kind, even if no one is watching, even if nothing gets back to her in return.

A lot has changed since that day I met her for the first time. But the spark never left her eyes, and that is more than enough reason for me to believe that she will shine in her time. 

You can’t extinguish the fire of the sun.

[katrinaherself]

[katrinaherself]

a cycle of bloom and decay

[katrinaherself]

[katrinaherself]

“Do you need an audience for your writing that desperately?”

These words hung in the air like the mist of war. I have little time left to rest, so at 3AM I forced myself to sleep. I never struggled to sleep; only when I am alone and I need to keep the lights on because I am scared of the dark. And it was one of those nights. I glanced groggily at my phone to check if I woke up too soon. 8:24AM. Too early. Much too early. And so I sleep again.

———

10:35AM. In those two hours I had a bad dream. I tried to remember it minutes after waking up, yet I forgot what it was by then. But I knew it wasn’t a pleasant one for the hours have gone and I still feel sad. I burned my lungs restlessly with a stick of black menthol by the window. The clouds looming above were thickets of grey cotton but they couldn’t mask the sun. And the sun shone, without remorse, so I closed my eyes instead, while breathing fire.

There was no one in the room with me. All my roommates left to spend our week off at their own homes. For days I wanted it to be exactly like this - mornings by myself. But I ought to be somewhere, doing things, tending to the demands of adulthood.

Now, no one’s watching. No one’s paying attention. There was no urgency to answer to someone’s beck and call. I would’ve slept all day, and I did.

I woke up at 6PM and decided that I’ll just go home tomorrow. I need to be home tomorrow because at 9:45PM I was already asleep, with all the lights off.

[katrinaherself]

For What It’s Worth

It is not in any way threatening to admire accomplished writers (who succeeded through pure passion) as a mere spectator. But it is a heightened yet slightly complicated kind of admiration when you try your hand at what it is they are great at, plunged to the world they dominate, wondering how the hell they got to be so good, or how they made their masterful artistry at present look nothing like a culmination of their struggles to make a name for themselves. It’s as if they were already born virtuosos.   

I have been on both sides of it. I have always admired timeless writers but it is not until recently that I have figured out that I want to be like them. It is different when you admire a writer only as a reader of their work (or a fan, if you will), as opposed to admiring them as a reader and an aspirant who wants to write as beautifully as them. They may be the very reason you even thought of trying. In the event that you coax words from thin air, or sigh in sheer frustration from not knowing how to start or to continue a flow you have already began, that is when you get to truly appreciate how brilliant these writers really are, for they have painstakingly but successfully conquered the process of it all… The taxing, sometimes mundane, but mostly difficult and complex art of perfecting their craft. Eventually, their words are rewarded by critical acclaim, or even better, imprinted on someone’s life forever; much like how they touched yours. 

And this pinnacle of success, this summit so inviting when viewed from afar, ignites your drive to push yourself further; on occasion being crippled by your inexperience, limitations, and self-pity. This is the price that comes with it. Maybe no one really cares. Maybe you will be deemed irrelevant. Maybe there is nothing left for you to write. Maybe you overestimated yourself. Or, maybe there are secret shortcuts. Maybe they only got lucky and the Universe will never conspire for your turn. Sometimes you will be discouraged by their intimidating expertise, almost forgetting that in their early years as nameless novices, they were once just like you. And the ills you are plagued with would have robbed the world of great writers, had they let themselves be silenced by their demons. If you try hard enough, try so hard that your passion for your craft transcends your desire for the rewards that could come with it, try so hard that the fulfillment now comes solely in the creating, try so hard that your fears are dismissed by simply letting yourself go because to hell with that, you love, love, love writing in itself - then all your efforts will never amount to nothing. You lose nothing by creating. Write! Just write, and forget everything else. At least allow yourself that. And maybe someday it will get you up there, your name etched in history, but that’s all there is left to do for now - to keep writing. 

That’s all it takes to make it, anyway.

[katrinaherself]

Petrichor

The smell of rain on dry ground.

Just like that, summer was over and it started raining again. It was an afternoon colder than the other afternoons I slowly got used to, most of which I only spent huddled in bed, covered in sweat, wasting the day away by recycling tons of movies that I have already watched for about ten times. I took sips of tea from my disgustingly bright orange mug. I never liked the color orange, but tea was something that I learned to love lately.

Although my life has been a cluster of repetitions, this month was riddled with changes. And I am so afraid. Of what exactly, I am not entirely sure. And even if my humdrum existence for the past weeks has allowed so much room for thought, I didn’t really spend my hours actively thinking about things. I kept on worrying with a draining passivity, almost as if I enjoyed it. I let the anxiety creep into me only because I have no idea how to make it disappear.

I have been running away. I have been running from everything, mostly from my responsibilities. Adulthood is hitting me hard and it hasn’t even begun yet. If only it was that easy. If only all of my fears vanished when I dedicate a portion of my time to sit them down and painstakingly address them one by one. There is no immediate solution to the fears I now make a home out of, but maybe I can continue on with a better mindset.

But sometimes, all that I need is someone to tell me that it would be okay. That constant reassurance that I will succeed, without a shadow of doubt. I wait for it in every person I seek solace from, even if I know that the answer can never be clear. And that is the comfort in it, I suppose; that gnawing uncertainty combated by a resounding “I believe you can make it.” It’s so simple of a remedy. And I can only work my way towards its realization, harder than I’ve ever worked for anything in my life so far... Until I move on to newer heights and more overwhelming pursuits. Life, as I’ve been told, is a constant flux. And no matter what, it does indeed go on.  

My, I didn’t put enough milk on my tea.

[katrinaherself]

Sharmaine Sandra

Shasafeirce.

If Helen can launch a thousand ships, one look in her eyes can burn a whole city down.

She is not an arsonist in that sense, but scorching warmth that the rest of us cannot handle, just yet. She steals hearts like a shadow in the night, but never a sliver of malice in the way she plucks your heartstrings, and all in good intent. There was something about her at a first glance that yearned for a second look. It could be the mystery in that sophisticated demeanor, or that hesitant stare that had mists of questions and a thirst for expeditions. Take the leap for her, and you’ll find yourself in a place in which not everyone can set foot. Not of forbidden forests, not of concrete jungles that put you in grave peril, but a paradise in which there is hope for new life.

There is a default explanation about people who do not let others in easily. I suppose it’s the pain. I suppose it’s the grueling hours invested on trying to build a foundation of trust and loyalty. But in this world where it is now rare to find kindred who reeks of generous genuineness, to whom anything you can give will unlikely be misplaced, there is this woman. I found her in blind spots where I didn’t even explore. I found her, and she found me. And in celebration of us finding each other, I am given a serene assurance that things turn out the way they are supposed to.

I can tell you about the times I spend with her, while she talks about life so refreshingly different from an average 19-year-old, and how I catch myself thinking of the many things this world has promised to her that are yet to be put in motion. I sigh in almost palpable frustration in the moments that she is so unaware of how beautiful she really is, or how she mirrors my unwavering doubt regarding self-worth, but I straighten up when I remember the wisdom she has imparted once, when it was my turn to crumble. “Do not be easy to impress, Kat.”

It is this kind of strength, of boldness in character that I find the most charming, the most admirable in her. And I cannot wait, I cannot wait for her to rise from her ashes and see just how higher she can soar.

In her season, prepare yourself for a phoenix in full bloom.

[katrinaherself]

[katrinaherself]

[katrinaherself]

[katrinaherself]

k.z. x n.c.

[katrinaherself]

I Am Not a Poet

I am not a poet, But I try to write poetry because people like poetry And poetry can be my ticket to fame.

And if I become popular As a poet that writes poetry for popularity People will start reading Everything else that I write

And my writing becomes Owned by my desire for fame.

And somehow I like that better Than my writings that no one really reads but at least is owned by my passion and the will to change the world with it…

It makes me feel a bit shameful.

Poetry can also be Less intimidating because Paragraphs can be too much to some people, To someone who’ve had his or her fill for the day To someone who is craving for lightness To someone who does not really read

“Too much” can make them run away As soon as they tried to draw near And I am always too much.

Who really wants to handle a handful?

(And I make awkward verse cuts - if that’s what you call them)

In poetry, I can also Spill and S  c a     t t e r And bend the rules and I will be forgiven for it.

It will be like entering someone’s thoughts, directly Sans the edits and the filters And the rules, of course…

But I can’t always do this Because I am not a poet And you deserve better Than my flimsy poetry... I am not a good poet And my vocabulary Frustrates me sometimes Including my inability to articulate The voices that sound good in my head…

Because I have Many many ideas I am a geyser of revolutions But I am mostly a mess And I am everywhere and nowhere And I am difficult to figure out And I am often incoherent And I am a fixed failure

And I am not a good poet.

(I need a word that is synonymous to good.)

And I can tell you on and on And on and on and on Who I am not And who I think I am In relation to who I am not And occassionaly, the me that makes me happy

And I will tell you again and again And again and again and again That I am not a good poet

But if there is one thing I am good at It is trying.

[katrinaherself]

How I Choose Books in a Surplus and How Important Titles Are (and How I Suck at Thinking of Good Titles)

When I pass by Fully Booked, which is a bookstore that sells brand new books, I usually already have a target inside my head. It would be brief encounters because I do not like lingering in a bookstore knowing that I might not be able to afford the books that I want to read. I go for the kill right away; I grab the book I want, go straight to the cashier, and walk out after paying.

But it’s different when I shop books at Booksale. It’s a surplus store for books, and it would be a different experience for each visit. They don’t keep an inventory of their books, therefore, you can’t really ask them if they have a copy of this or a copy of that. You can only get so lucky if you spot a book that you came for or at least hoped to find.

The quality of their collection also depends on what branch you choose to go to. The best ones for me are Booksale Cubao and Booksale E. Rodriguez and my best finds so far are a book by Voltaire which is a Barnes and Noble copy and books by Tracy Chavelier.

I have a system in choosing the books I buy, although sometimes I tend to be extremely impulsive. But those that I nitpick are those that go through a certain screening process. Since the books are piled in such a way that you can see nothing but the spines, I cannot judge the book by its cover, therefore I begin by scanning the titles. I dismiss titles that are too literal or are simply not catchy to me. My latest buys are “Push” and “The Silk Road”. One-word titles and unique metaphors have an extra pull on me. The font and spine design are also deciding factors, before I pull something out from the pile. And that is when I judge the cover. I feel guilty for reducing a book to its title and cover but that’s just the way it is. I can’t complain then, if someone reduced me to my identifier or how I looked like. I have not considered myself as a person who takes much importance in visuals but I’m more visual than I’d like to admit. After I approve of the title and the cover design I look at the synopsis. Bonus points if the person who reviewed the book and contributed a convincing commentary of its marketability is an author I respect, like for instance Neil Gaiman, or Stephen King (in this case the book I picked up is most probably eccentric, mysterious, horrifying, or all of the above.)

And then I read the first three pages once the premise peaks my interest. If it looks promising, I buy the book. Less than a hundred is the ideal but usually the good ones in mint condition and are new arrivals cost approximately 115pesos. That’s relatively cheaper than buying it in its original price.

Imagine all the books that goes unread. I ache for the ones I ignore, the books hidden in corners too far to reach or under the mountain of books that would be too much of a hassle to rummage. Imagine the labor the author invests to produce a literary masterpiece and ends up not being purchased. I hurt for them a bit, especially as it can happen to me in the future. This is why I give books that are not so popular a fair chance from time to time.

We participate in our encounters in life more than we realize, I believe.

[katrinaherself]

BG: Do you write with a bit of reality or do you go all fiction?

KZ: I write about reality with a bit of fiction.

[katrinaherself]

Tao Lang

Magsasalita ka pa rin ba, kahit wala namang makikinig?

Ibibigay mo pa rin ba lahat, kahit wala namang kapalit?

Hanggang saan ba ang sukdulan?

Bakit tahimik ka parin sa isang sulok, kahit nais mo nang sumigaw?

Huwag kang matakot hangga’t hindi mo pa nasusubukan.

Isang hakbang lamang ang kailangan upang magsimula.

Hayaan ang sariling

magpadalos-dalos paminsan-minsan.

Magpadala ka lamang sa agos ng pag-aalinlangan dahil Lahat naman tayo ay hindi sigurado Kung mayroon ba tayong kahihinatnan.

Ang pagkakaiba lang ng mga may nararating sa wala ay ang pagpupumilit na mapansin, marinig, at magbigay ng higit pa sa tingin nilang nararapat.

Handa silang masira.

Handa silang maubos.

Handa silang mabuong muli.

[katrinaherself]

"350 for a book this thin? That's silly," I said to myself as I fumbled through the others stacked together in a neat pile. I shouldn't be all that surprised, since Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea cost a few more bucks and was just as thin. This is my disease; I could not, for the life of me, stop myself from buying books that I would probably read a year after my purchase, among hundreds of unread ones. There weren't any people in that particular bookstore I went to. It was a relatively new stall, but the books it sold weren't. Perhaps some, but not all. They had a reasonably good collection... Good enough for me not to leave empty handed. Just like you. You weren't new. I met guys like you before. But there was something about you I could not resist. You were more than good enough. Was it another disease? That I could not resist giving myself to boys who will, inevitably, fuck me over? Certainly, I did not leave empty handed. I left with shards of my broken heart, bloodied and battered... But heck, it put up quite a battle. It fought for you to the death of the old me. Soon enough I'll enter a new realm again, trying to resist the irresistible... But with a better knowledge of who to pick. And what was the price I paid to experience you? No big deal, only the whole of me.