Freedom fighter

Maligayang pagdating sa aking utak. Ako si Jeorge. Ikaw, anong klaseng utak meron ka?

[litdev]

May mga taong sobra kung magmahal, at kung may labis pa sila, pakipatir ng puso kong uhaw.

[litdev]

Hello, nice to see you again.

[litdev]

Still the same.

[litdev]

I am writing again: about all that have been turned down, lost and forgotten. About how exactly it is to write when you feel like not writing; on empty paper with empty mind. And how it dives into me about the pain of sorrow and how I could not describe it; with lack of words and a moment full of emotions.

I write so that I can make mistakes. About what I can improve and the reason I'm afraid to dismantle.

I am writing again. About the politeness of my words and the intimacy of my prepositions, and how I wish to go back again to the place where you found me: first, second, third. And how it ended. And how distracting it is to begin a sentence with an 'and' or perhaps 'end.' It depends on how your brain works or how mine imagines, or how everyone gives a damn.

I am writing again. To you.

[litdev]

I loved you not because I knew you were gonna die. I loved you because it was comforting to die right beside someone I painfully loved.

[litdev]

Good evening. Sorry if I took a dive in your archives. Your blog just feels really comforting and wonderful. I hope you don't mind. Have a good night! :)

Thank you. I appreciate it. A lot.

[litdev]

Do you miss me? He asked. Of course, I answered. But why can't I feel it? Because I never felt you.

[litdev]

Ito 'yung mga panahong sa salamin na lang ako nakakangiti. Hay.

[litdev]

i write. others read.

[radarph]

by @litdev

I’m sorry. It took me a while to write; otherwise, to love for love is vague and to write is as dim.

Give me your hand and I’ll sit on it. I’ll follow the lines and trek on the path where the end can be found, where our fate can be clenched and crushed and contused as you write our story- I was there.

I will sway with your fingers and I will hang on your callus, I’ll sleep on your nails- at the corner, with the dirt- to prove that love is not as clean as the ink that can spill.

I’m sorry. It took me a while to write and to love you back.

I didn’t know you can write, I didn’t know you can make love.

Forgive me, I received your letter but did not read it. I’d rather finish a cup of coffee than read the words because once I slit the mail wide open, it will bleed- like my chest. One by one, you pulled my ribs off, one then the other. And I was there, breathing because I still have lungs but barely living- I had no soul.

Will you still give me another cup? No, not coffee. Just a little empty cup where I can collect my blood and drink it, to give me life and to love, to love to love you back.

I know you still have time to write another letter and send it to me. So please, do me a favour. Write again and I’ll sit on your palm, I’ll sway with your finger and sleep underneath your skin. But this time, I’m not afraid to slit it wide open for I have nothing to lose, I have nothing to gain.

I’m sorry. It took me a while to write.

[litdev]

You eat words and digest them. Then you puked. Your words stink on the floor. You licked them.

[litdev]

it's a tiny world

you were told not to write but still you did. that's fine. you blew the words off your mouth and turned them into ashes which could either be like you or me, one of the infinite things; one only seen and not counted; thrown in the air far away until it touches the cornea- at least I made you cry. but still, you will forget about me existing in your vast world.

[litdev]

Life is not all about money. You'll realize it when you get old. Make memories now so that when time is the only thing left of you, you can just smile.

[litdev]

I was searching for boogers in your nose or the wax in your ears to make me believe you were imperfect. But you were not, really. I forgot you don’t exist. Really is the word you most often regard to me or about me or with me. And you believed I was not good at using prepositions that’s why you taught me about the word over.  And then you left.

That time, I knew I was right when you left. You know, the sense of giving yourself the chance to know what’s right from wrong or what’s right from left. Damn it. You left me with no choice. 

[litdev]

If you ask yourself whether he's gay or not, he's gay.

[litdev]

I would love to live in a world where everyone had been before- but left, and say to their face, with all might, that I have survived living in a place they just abandoned. It would be nice to know that I have loved the unlovable and stayed vulnerable to what might betray me in the end.

[litdev]

You can always count on me, says the number.