“People are so vulnerable at night. They’re willing to spill out their souls to anyone willing to listen. They have desires to do things that never cross their mind when the sun is in the sky.”—(via milkied)
You’re single because you’re single. It’s not because you texted too much or too little or waited 33 minutes to respond because he took 23. It’s not because you met up with your ex that night at 5 a.m. that no one knows about, or because you kissed another boy after a date with a loser.
You’re not single because you spit food on that date or tripped coming out the the movie theatre. You’re not single because you hurt your first boyfriend really badly when you were 15 or because you have yet, to this day, to apologize. It’s not because you were secretly jealous when your friend got a boyfriend or that a guy you dated for two months now has a really cute girlfriend and looks really happy. And you’re happy for him. But still ill that he found someone before you.
You’re not single because you slept with your ex boyfriend. You’re not single because half the world found out when you didn’t even want to remember it yourself. You’re not single because you think the guy your friend wants to hook you up with is ugly or not tall enough. It’s not because you’re not willing to put up with someone who doesn’t brush their teeth on a regular basis.
You’re not single because your standards are too high. Good for you for having standards. It’s not because you didn’t like that really, really good guy who wanted to take you on a date and you just weren’t feeling it. And it’s not because you like to wear pajama pants as soon as you get home and wash all the makeup off your face. You’re not single because you didn’t learn enough from the past or would rather chill on a Friday night with your blanket and a cold beer than shower, get ready, and go out. You’re not single because something is wrong with you.
You are single because you are single. It’s really as simple as that. You haven’t made the connection with another heart yet. You can get dolled up, dress cute, cut your hair, dye your hair, tweeze your eyebrows, put on lipstick and you may still. be. single. You can go out to a bar hoping to meet the love of your life and not find a damn one in the place attractive. And it’s going to remain that way until it’s time for you to find one. Stop hoping for it. Start living the life that you do have instead of wishing for things that you don’t have. There will come a time you’ll meet a boy and you’ll have to give up some of this single freedom you currently have. Start being more thankful. Start doing that now.
Between shades of light and dark, pale lips smiled before me, flirting and singing novels, flipping pages in every possible way, as if every piece was a lyric in his melody.
His voice gave me great pleasure, leaving me to reach the climax of my own desire. Like how hearts flow in any romantic movies, or how the background blur when the couple begins to kiss.
Years gone by, you’ve been singing love songs. Never a single time you have felt fed up. Never a single time that your novel reached the ending or finale, or at least for now.
And just like the first time, between shades of light and dark, you opened the door and started to walk away. You left me abruptly as if I was a phlegm you want to spit — as if I was a lyrical piece you’ve grown to hate for singing for the nth time.
From then on, silence conquered my world, left me with no choice, and never heard that voice again — never heard your novels again.
1. Overhead shot of a train zipping by, bisecting the screen. Metal against metal, a clanging staccato. Dawn comes in to welcome office workers half-awake, their yawns half-stifled. At this point of departure, there is no turning back:
2. Continuity is the cardinal rule, your perpetual obsession. (The tiny voice-over will be insistent.) The driver sits behind the nose of the train, cut-off from the rest of us. Always he looks ahead; he alone controls and therefore knows the inexorable motion of moving forward, forward… And the urbanscape he passes by recedes into pale shadows.
3. With a queue that snakes from the stairs to the ticket booth to the turnstile to the train, what better way to prepare for movement but through inertia? A slow procession of feet and suddenly a stampede – the door closing in on the rushing commuters. (By now, the audience will be fidgeting in their seats. They will be restless, uneasy. They will question your approach, find fault with your logic. Let them. Let them see through your nakedness which might have been their own.)
4. Acceleration. Buildings and billboards in rapid succession. Beyond the fiberglass window, the scene remains elusive, out-of-focus. Who else but you would intimate meaning to what is captured within the frame – an empty seat, crumpled paper on the zen-gray floor, the city skyline beyond blurred by the rain?
5. Between strangers, a whisper-thin distance. Everyday we rehearse the accident of touch. You hazard close-ups; the camera breathes on our skin. Density. I can feel the pulse of whoever leans against me. How will I know whose heartbeat is whose-
6. Is it mine or yours or someone else’s? (Or ours altogether?) How did you imagine us to be petals on wet, black bough? Why do you seek clarity and coherence, looking for what you perceive to be a story (what story?)? What if this train is peopled by ghosts? If you go farther beyond the end, where will the train take you, where will you go?
7. You look at me – I look at him – he looks at you. Each face somehow familiar yet anonymous, the daily déjà vu. Tentative gaze from eye to downcast eye, a wordless unease in this chamber, heaving. You leave me intact, unscathed yet feeling insufficient, like someone aching to be completed.
8. Offscreen, someone’s bored housewife is opening the door to her secret lover. Somebody’s father is breathing his last in a hospital ward. These may or may not happen. A fire, murder, death: an ordinary tragedy. All permutations are possibilities you fancy, all possibilities are permutations you refuse.
9. This scene a blank. There are no answers here. This is only a form of consciousness, the stations mere parentheses.
10. Now beneath. Slivers of light. Flitting past. The darkness hypnotic. Tunnelling through, what is visible startles. This is a problem of perspective, hence a problem of sight: the myopia, dyslexia of being in between.
11. And another. It happens this way: tilt to description, zoom in detail, repeat the cycle. You can film all you want in transit and it becomes anything but. So much for sequences, patterns, repetitions.
12. Lifting up into the horizon, this steel trapeze artist balances above the graveyard traffic. And within, the fugitive silence. The end is merely a flick of a finger, a trigger away. (You hold the audience captive.)
13. When you leave, I will remember you only by the fingerprints you left on me, you witness, voyeur, thief. And I am led someplace: toward this finality, this eventual finality. Fade-out; end credits.
Thirteen stations of the MRT: A short film, Rodrigo V. Dela Pena jr.
You know that feeling when your friends have this ‘bestfriend friend’. The friend that they always want to be with although you’re in a group. The friend they always talk to whenever they have a problem.
Ha ha ha. I feel like I’m just a third wheel in any of my friends. Yeah sure, I have this group of friends I call ‘my friends’ but at the end of the day, I have no one to talk to about stuff. I feel out of place whenever I see them pairing up and have conversation on their own.
I feel so left out. I feel so downcast. I don’t have that friend.
Tonight is a great story about a group of friends trying to get themselves drunk. The days of the month wither like autumn leaves when you go missing; I miss you. In the dark you can neither read the ballpen-ink which wrote words I can never say upfront. The January wind is the twin brother of my cold, beating heart. I am writing about the distinct lines on your forehead, which I find very beautiful. When I hear you speak I can only talk about silence inside my head. You are my gorgeous, handsome antihero. The moral of the story—never, ever break my heart in two. (But you did.) Tonight is also a great story about us going out for a walk. When we walk it is as if time lends itself to us and in our control we make it stop and sometimes run it slow. Your eyes burrow from your lack of sleep—you’re still beautiful, still, so, very beautiful. I do not ask you questions because I will always be afraid to hear all your answers. So I ask myself instead. The January wind is also the twin brother of Antarctica, where it will always be cold, like my beating heart. When you broke my heart in two I never asked you to fix it up. I ask myself, will you take me home this time? Will you hold my hand like before? Sometimes I pretend to sleep so I can pretend to dream about you with me. In my dreams we are together and each night we go out for a walk. Tonight is a great story about us, walking, by the streets painted dark orange by the streetlights.
1. Do not kill yourself. Killing yourself is very messy and your mother will cry over you. It is not beautiful or brave, and even if it was, you will not be around to see that.
2. Washing your hair is going to be a chore. But you should do it anyway. Because you will feel better about yourself.
3. Get up late. Have a lay in. Sleep past your alarm. You have a very long life ahead of you and for now you should appreciate the cold side of your pillow.
4. He is going to break your heart but he’s just another male human who finds it hard to deal with Mondays, too. So in a month you’ll wake up and you won’t even remember that little scar on his knuckle you kissed.
5. Don’t spend hours looking up what your name means on google. Your name is your name and you should go out there and do heroic and good deeds and give your name your own meaning.
6. Don’t fight your demons. Your demons are here to teach you lessons. Sit down with your demons and have a drink and a chat and learn their names and talk about the burns on their fingers and scratches on their ankles. Some of them are very nice.
7. Music is good for your soul. Rap music will energise you and boost your ego and pop music will cheer you up. Indie music will make you think and emotional songs will make you cry and think about that boy again. It’s healthy.
8. Victim complexes are not attractive. Boys and girls will not date you because you are sad. They are not going to date you and kiss your aching bones and cure you of your dragging depression. Wake up. Take a bath. Do your hair. Be attractive.
9. Sadness is not poetic. Depression is not beautiful. Laying in bed all day and eating too much is lazy and disgusting and it is not tragic or pretty. Get up. Go outside. Let the sun warm your bones. Live.
10. If it makes you happy, buy twenty of it. Dedicate your life to it. Print it on tv shirts and collect things and draw art of it. Do not care what people think. They are the unhappy people you need to avoid. The abuse they will hurl at you is painless compared to how sad they are. Pity them. Remain happy.
11. You are allowed to he angry. But the world is not working against you. The flowers do not bloom for you and when your mother shouts ask her if she is okay instead of thinking she hates you. She never will. The world walks beside you and is silent. It does not trip you up or carry you.
12. Day and night cycles are natural. Humans only sleep at night because we used to avoid predators in the dark because of our poor eyesight. Stay awake until 5am watching bad reality shows. Wake up at 7pm and have breakfast.
13. Eat when you are hungry. Being bored does not constitute a chocolate bar. Sleep with you are tired. Do not mindlessly obey the sleep at night rule. If you are not tired, do not sleep.
Maybe if you leaned a little closer you’d finally see the sunlight hiding inside his eyes, like a terribly beautiful secret suddenly made known.
You can count on me when I say I could love you forever.
You never know when until you come about it, and today’s the day, tonight’s the night, this is the year it’s all going to happen. So you close your eyes and count to ten and wonder when it’ll ever end and finally begin again.
Pretend that you’ve long forgotten, like how you fake being okay in front of someone you feel distant with, when at the middle of the night, you still inhale his fragrance that lingers in his unwashed shirt, still reminisce the scent of his words, the ‘forever’ from his lips, on your skin it grips, the carving in your nails was always been the aroma of your love.
In presence of solitude, deceive people as if it doesn’t exist, as if he’s still there at your window, glancing for greeting, no intention of retrieving his own scent, but aims to intoxicate you with his own attendance, never again leaving or giving your story a sorrowful ending.
There is something so romantic about the night. Maybe it’s the love affair between the moon and the ocean; the ocean thanks her moon for pulling her into motion by showing him how beautiful he is. Maybe that’s why the sun burns our skins- it must get jealous interrupting love every morning. It must wish something would show it its beauty.
It must not know the entire solar system is being moved by its presence.