The Blog That We Share

This blog is a project: a symbol of the friendship of those involved. Among its authors are 5 students from U.P. Manila who aim to share their experiences, viewpoints and thoughts on some pressing and not-so-important matters.

[pseudofamily]

Back to School Feels

B: I don't know how to count anymore.. What comes after one?

J: What's one?

[pseudofamily]

Visit Original Link

Don't you just hate fake British accents. 

I have a bad voice. But I'm kinda good with tones. I'm sorry. 

[pseudofamily]

Taking advantage of fast upload speed.

[pseudofamily]

[pseudofamily]

Korea photodump 2013!

[pseudofamily]

"Hello sir, welcome sa Jollibee." This was just one of the many different ways our previous neighborhood guard used to greet me. He had actually had a whole lot under his sleeve but he always did his greetings with such vibrant energy, with genuine happiness and seeming concern about the well-being of each member of the community. He took 12-hour shifts everyday along with another man who was not as happy but was seeming doing his job right. As he took the night shift, he often saw which ones escaped into the night to go away or perhaps, buy food and gobble it on the way back. The latter of the statement was pretty much me. He never commented about it though, although the daily interaction routine included him asking if I wanted to play basketball. He was always asking if we could be in the same team, pointing at the regular players while saying that we would defeat them. He was always saying that I was tall and I can play. I never minded it though, although not because I was much better than the entire concept of playing, but because I couldn't. I wasn't in the big time playing circle. I didn't want to make a fool of myself, let alone let my team mates lose. But he was insistent. He would always ask and I would always make something up to avoid playing: a homework, a project, I just ate, I just exercised. Anything in the book to keep me from playing. But I always promised that I would play if ever I had the time. Even though there were plenty of opportunities to actually play, as I sometimes used to lock myself out of the house for the negligence of bringing a key, I still avoided playing. I rather sat on the chair he often used, watching the surveillance video for the area instead of playing. He often tried small talk but I was really bad too. Sometimes, I would do okay but then, pertinent questions such as "Do you have a girlfriend?" would come up. Does my laptop count? After a while, I believe I made myself a new friend. Although I still could not counter the enthusiasm he had, I did always say thank you as he opened the door with his greetings. It became part of my routine. I was sure that I was to get both guards gifts during the Christmas Party. There would be games and I promised to actually play this time around. These past few days, I was weirded out that he was no longer greeting every time he opened the door. The door would open without the warm welcome I was accustomed to. Perhaps, he was sick of me ignoring his question of playing? Perhaps, he thought I was too full of myself? I just couldn't bring myself to look at him during this time. Perhaps, of shame or of disappointment, I wasn't sure. Yesterday, a voice greeted me although it surprised me that the voice and the tone totally changed. He was no longer our previous security guard, as he was seemingly replaced. Yes, he was a bit flirtatious with the maids but he was nice to everyone. I couldn't see a reason why the community had to let him go. Perhaps, he quitted himself. He can do better and that I knew. All I wish for is that I actually got to play before he had gone. He was a friend and I was a sucky one at that.

[pseudofamily]

Pixelate

What does it feel like to be real?

Bouts and bouts of alternating depression and ecstasy had me going insane, not just because of the mentally retarding effects I inflict on my body-the lack of sleep, the psychological self harm and the excess eating but also due to the fact that I have gone beyond repair and any repair on my repetitive attempt to change would just prove futile.

I don't even know if anything makes sense anymore. I look at things, at school related things that should be the center of my life, of my focus with the unease of a toddler who thinks he knows addition but is forced to learn multiplication on his first day. I have prepared for this, for everything but where is the energy, that thriving spirit I need to do things and actually do them them well?

I speak, tact, sarcastic, uncompromising and unconfined. I miss my old environment, the times when I wasn't as sullen or grumpy. It's hard to believe that this empty shell of a human being was once happy. But now everything seems to take me by the neck, choking me. Everything, the distant familiarity of things I no longer wish to have and the esteem damaged by months and months of retarded activity.

But at this point, I can no longer go back. I am no longer my former self, just a shadow of the prime fatness I have once thought hideous. People move on and interaction just can't happen. I can no longer talk to most of them. I have nowhere left to go. My social ineptitude is at full swing and I am no longer interesting enough for people to even try. Nobody actually cares.

When I watch TV, everything seems better. I feel part of a world which I see interesting, impossible irrationality that makes room for the mediocre. For me.

So I do what I do. I eat, I watch and I breathe, hoping for things to get a little better even though I know that deep inside, it won't.

[pseudofamily]

Aim higher in case you fall short.

President Snow, Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins

[pseudofamily]

Preconceived notion

I can see how you are of the unconventional nature, the undamaged, wealthy girl who has constructed life to make it go as if everything has been unhanded fairly- to deserve that infallible backhanded compliment you have been wishing to obtain to go with the day you have planned to be perfect. Or at least, that was what you intended to happen, to feel assured that your parent's love is deserved perhaps due to that of the preconceive notion that goes to say, of you being a "miracle", luck which brought you mom's almost effete womb to create you. You knew you were never supposed to exist and as much as you wish you actually never did, you still breathe the constant what-ifs of your parents whom you have ultimately stolen freedom from.

I know that look. It is safe that you have mixed all your emotion up in a big pot but seemingly only manifesting happiness. You want to feel like someone other people would enjoy being with as you see no other option. You know your true nature too much, perhaps for your own good so you shake everything off and you listen. You smile and listen hoping that someone else would ever do the same.

But when you hug solidarity from its roots, you really could never go back.  You couldn't ever feel any attachments to anyone as your friendships are all built from the increasing complex theories that friendship can be defined and life calculated. You wish to correct yourself by being the best version you think you can be, much too restrained, much too unhappy.

The intrigue is, I want to be the one that goes and saves you. You are special, much too special to be deserved by the likes of me, yet I still persevere to break the barriers I have set for myself, the introversion, the silence, the unattached persona-breaking it all for you until I become completely different. Destroying myself to save you, oh, how remarkable of a purpose.

I'll make you feel what it feels like.

I'll define love for you as you have me.

[pseudofamily]

A little boy shudders in his crib. He stands up, his tiny fingers grasping the wooden rails. He hears Mother, as he established that she is so several days ago - she's upset. No, he didn't miss potty time; he didn't try to gobble down his favorite train set; he didn't draw on the walls. He hears a familiar voice, deeper and stronger than hers. Perhaps, it belonged to the man with the distinct smell and the spiky face that carries him while Mother fixes his banana sludge over the counter. A bang on the door, broken plates, wailing, screaming, whispers, silence. . . He never saw him again. He was okay. The little boy never longed for his father. He was better off without him. He could remember that distinct smell of shaving cream on his face. But, that was all. He grew up and never longed for his father. Or at least, he told himself he never did. . . He sees him. Reader, you may be expecting something dramatic. I'm sorry but nothing happens. He is okay. He greets him with a handshake. The smell is gone, he must have changed shaving creams over the years. He is okay. No tears, no aches, nothing lost, nothing gained. He is okay. He carries on his day and the next and the next. He is okay. Or at least that's what it seemed to me.

[pseudofamily]

He sits at the back, alone, fiddling with his pen as he tries to draw some deep thought onto paper. The teacher has just finished discussing the importance of manners, of listening. Obviously, he was oblivious. He thought himself too good for the class, for this musically-obsessed teacher who had the worst retorts and jokes he has ever heard since his former teacher from a semester ago. It was just so painfully unfunny that he would rather cut off both his ears and eat them rather than listen to another poorly constructed joke that seems to have originated from the depths of the abyss.

He looks at the work he spent nearly 20 minutes on. The lines made no sense, they seemed inconclusive of any brain activity, messy, spontaneous and crooked. He tried to pass it off as abstract as that was what he usually did to avoid admitting his lack of technicality in this field. He was no artist.

Bored, he turns on his iPod. He quickly jams both earphones in, blocking away any sound the teacher was giving off. He no longer cared if she saw. He was at the back, had already signed attendance so what did he have to lose? Was coming to class insufficient enough that he had to suffer sitting near a bunch of snobs who chattered noisily about the importance of looking at cute boys?

Nevermind that. The weather outside was shitty, compounding along with the ever-so-present classmates who always had to impress everyone with their idiotic questions and equally moronic answers. Not to mention, he forgot to eat breakfast, lunch or anything that would make him less cranky. He felt sick of the subject and it was only the first day. He wanted to rant but he couldn't. He was "filtering" his thoughts as to conform with society's expectations. Admittedly, he was a little screw up in the head.

What a great way to start the semester, he thought.

[pseudofamily]

Having privilege should not excuse us from public work that helps the poor. Rather, it should call us to be more involved, because we have the resources to support ourselves, and help those in need. We know that we have much, and they have little. Thus, our privilege entitles us to help out because WE CAN. We could step out of our comfort zones, engage the marginalized in discourse, and even teach them.

Anne Lim

I was doing my routine of reading posts from one my favorite columns under the Philippine Daily Inquirer, Young Blood, when I came across Ms. Lim's article. She may have had written this in a different context but it still managed to catch my attention.

--

This is a call to do our share and take part in various relief operations. This is the time to transform the sympathy we feel into concrete actions. There are many opportunities - donate goods or volunteer in repacking them. You can even make a donation to Red Cross using your cellphone. If you do not have access to these things, you can also offer a prayer for the victims of this calamity. No more excuses. All you need to have is the willingness to help and the desire to make things happen.

Action and passion. Dare to be radical.

To read more about the article, go to this link: http://opinion.inquirer.net/65079/poverty-and-privilege

To see the list of on-going relief operations, go to this link: http://www.rappler.com/move-ph/issues/disasters/43300-reliefph-victims-typhoon-yolanda-help

[pseudofamily]

There are monsters inside us. 

They thrive in our innermost beings. They feed on our emotions. They override our thoughts. They tinkle with our control system. 

You try to fight them. 

You stay quiet but the monsters are screaming inside your head, screeching actually. 

You sit in the corner but a part of you itches to go hysterical. 

Who are they? 

What do they want? 

I don't know. 

You'll never win. No, not alone. 

[pseudofamily]

I can't draw. Period.

Although sometimes, the "fun" in things isn't necessarily sourced from your skill. I thought that these were actually okay during the time.

I would like to think that I have improved even by a small margin. (this is me consoling myself)

-Done nearly 2 years ago for a project.

[pseudofamily]

[pseudofamily]

Metamorphosis.

[pseudofamily]

Grave

For the people I have loved and lost, I will keep you alive. I will etch your memory in stone. 

As much as one wants to forget, things never completely vanish. They may dwindle down, but they still linger and scorch, eating away at one's satisfaction little by little.

Sometimes, the pain just makes us want to forget. 

We deny the fact that we are just human, that emotions and apprehension are part of the healing process. Deemed strong, we break during the most crucial of moments.

Then we go mad, flinching, trying to repair the damage done. Gaps can never be replaced. We fall in the same pit every time.

We visit every year with wholeheartedness, with some miraculous assertion that in some way, we relive the dead. That grave is a constant reminder of the time unshared, of moments unfulfilled due to lack of opportunity. We light candles but the darkness within us are left, turbulent and unsettled.

I just really want to see you again but there are things that just can't happen. So I patiently await for the impossible: for the chance to be whole again.