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Acchan

March 2017

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Mar. 20th, 2017

Cosmos

fixable




no title
Cosmos

kitchen sink

Here is a man who feels empty and stripped of dignity. One incapacitated and cowering from the disarray before him and running into the arms of seclusion; the embrace of self-persecution. Here was a splitting-image of me a few weeks back.


But his flight, at the very least, is an unfortunate event that happened in a place people can see.


At the very least, he is still sending me ravens to relay his predicament.

What do you say to someone who has admitted defeat and professed to having lost the will to fight?


Anything.

You tell him anything to let him know that there are people waiting for him outside his castle; that he has a place to return to. I know that during the darkest of hours, even the most rousing of words tend to be lost in the stillness of the night, but a whisper of them stays with the wind. He can take the time he needs to rally his strength and do all that he can to resist the addicting comfort that solitude and time bring. Time can numb his pain and make it seem distant enough to drain it of its urgency, but never of its value. It can bestow his poison a breathing room to fester and grow more potent still. You become so accustomed to the devastation that you grow numb, thinking it neutralized as it continues to destroy everything it touches in its path.

Shit happens.

---not that it just suddenly blossomed into existence or that it's part of a goddamn plan, we make miscalculations and mistakes; acknowledging them is the first step to making it right. Giving it form makes it targetable, makes it easy to hit with a skill shot.


The crippling feeling of defeat and shame is something we need to carve on the walls of our head.



Hold on to it.



Remember and tell yourself that there's no way you're gonna feel that shitty again.



no title


We ride the same Jaeger and have a strong active neural handshake, share the same abyssal hue and take dips of varying depth in the same pool of cynicism, so he must know how saying that he can't fight anymore scares me out of my wits; that I believe he can conquer his dilemma the way he helped wipe the slime from my face when I resurfaced from my dive. My kitchen sink is his kitchen sink.



No homo.

I'm gonna scream myself hoarse and pound my fists on his walls.



You're not facing that kaiju on your own, fren.



no title


---UPDATE---


My Jaeger buddy has triumphed over his own demons and naturally, as a fren, my immediate reaction was: "How in the bloody hell are you okay already?! How can you respawn so quickly?! How come my own death timer is so messed up?"



"Oh, I'm Anivia. It's my passive, you see."



While not completely patched up, it is rousing to know that he is up and about once more, running through the rift and quite possibly farming in the jungle to regain his strength.

Mar. 13th, 2017

Acchan

I, poet

AD HOC RELIEF

Rise 'ye, dear one, from thy watery grave,

From fear no longer shall you be enslaved,

For the depths offer but naught to be gained,

Take a cord for thy troubles, strangle thy pain.


An unforgiving mistress, time does make,

A draught of absinthe for thy every ache,

An alluring bosom maketh a welcome grave,

A brief respite in the embrace of a knave.


For beyond the walls of the labyrinth thou erected,

An army increases a thousand-fold, undetected,

In cold sweat thou awake, scarce ears assaulted,

By a thundering march thy heart seconded.


Oh, what horror! How can this be?

A daunting threat thrived in a place you can't see?

Realizing too late how keenness is key,

Thou find thyself with the option to only flee!


But a fool is he who runs back to that bosom,

Offering warmth and a consoling illusion,

Whereas past the haze of silk sheets and wine,

For the cause of thy fall, the army shall dine.


Rise 'ye, once valiant, stand tall, bear the burden,

Strike down hesitation, thy revenge be sudden,

In your heart let burrow the taste of dire disdain,

For though the rain cometh, the stain shall remain.

Mar. 2nd, 2017

i'll be a knight

this is a poem of transition




gandalf


Fly, you fool.
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Mar. 1st, 2017

Cosmos

sometimes quiet is violent

Memories melting into the night
Shadows growing taller against the light
How thick the silence must have been
How deafening the voices must have echoed therein

A quiet march towards the precipice
Prodded by stars, by moon and breeze
As the world mused on what the morrow could be
You took your life away from me



Having a death wish was the very first thing Randy and I bonded over. With his seemingly cloying positive attitude, I had expected him to berate and lecture me on the sanctity of life, but there we were, walking under the moonlight and giddily expounding about how we wanted to leave this world and how, despite the dark nature of our conversation, we would never commit to doing it. If there existed a door that opens to non-existence, back then, we might have crossed it without hesitation. Ad Hoc relief is never an option. Death was not something we feared and while we pondered on the calm that comes with it, we would much prefer to suffer the pains of this world if it meant that we could stand next to the people we hold dear. It wasn't that Randy was always laughing, smiling and positively shining that shocked me to hear of his passing, no, if anything, he was one of the people I knew whose darkness resonated with mine; it was that I knew how much he loved his children, and somehow...whatever it was that weighed heavily in his chest, his great love for them wasn't enough.


Was he crying when he walked towards the precipice? Did his hands shake? Did he have second thoughts? How long has he been nurturing the poison eating him inside for it to grow so potent? How in the world did he come to the conclusion that there was no one he could lean on? Did I even graze his mind? Could I have done anything to p- Was I not your friend, Randy, you bloody wanker? The pain of thinking how he suffered alone in the darkness of his own home...slowly convincing himself of how the only answer to alleviate his torment was death; it's almost as crippling as the knowledge that I could never hear his voice again.


-that he is dead.



-that the morrow and the next before that will be devoid of his presence.



-of how people will mourn, and cry, and relive his memory


-and drown once more in the desiderata of life.



How you ached, Randy, how intensely you must have ached, and how I ache in return for not being a strong enough force to pierce through the silence that you were drowning in.



It must have been painful, Randy. I'm sorry.



Nov. 24th, 2015

grin and swear

Metaphysical Shooting Star

I am defeated...by that dark mass I have long tried to keep within the craggy recesses of my head where I hold all things cumbersome and unwanted. I was...of all the things I am loathed to be...immobilized.


I look back to the me who once thought of escaping pain through death, the me who understood that nothing born of pain was without meaning and the me who welcomes it as an ally (I need to acquire those excruiciatingly difficult to solo HP in Verdant Brink) and the me, at the moment, who, while not being assaulted by any crippling pain, is undoubtedly stupefied. In my chest is a weight I do not know how to rid myself of, its form eluding description.


I look back at my changing relationship to those occasional dips in the pool of self-persecution and realize that I have lost the one thing that has time and time again pulled me out before I sank any deeper....people...? No. Not people.


Writing.


WRITING.


How long has it been since I last took a tour through my mind palace? Everything is so dark and dim and slimy...cobwebs covering my face at every turn...my reflection on the floor that used to almost simulate a mirror is nothing but a fesh-colored, disfigured shape without features...what...what was it actually that defeated me in the battle I did not know existed? My hand writing has become horrendous (even more horrendous*) ...Is it not true that writing...that words allow me to give form to the hethens who dare stand up to his majesty, King of the Realm, The Elected Lord of every inferior emotion who made slaves of everything else~ Passion. Giving form to the enemy, a NAME, allows me to have power over it -allows me to lay waste to it.


How long has it been since I read Murakami?


I feel incredibly dull....worthless even. Tyrion would be increasingly disappointed at my failed attempts to bed new books only to leave them half-way.


I want to pursue my Nihongo studies.


I want to learn the intricacies of LOL.


I want Marin to be in a romantic relationship with Faker....or with KKoma...or the three of them in an angsty, or sweaty, complicated relationship...(Faker bottom lane...Marin top)


I want to, more than anything else, spend most of the time drawing...yaoi preferably.


I want to make sure my mother, who spent years abroad in solitude dealing with the feeling of helplessness to physically support her malicious spawns to live a comfortable life following her imminent retirement and return home.


Who or what I am right now is lacking, severely lacking...and the worst part of it all is that with so many things to accomplish I ended up entangled in vines (ranger elite skill) that sprouted from the seeds of insecurity birthed by the goddamn fruit of fear!!!! I AM BEING DRAMATIC!!! GAAAAAAH! I hate you self!!!





Fear of failure?!  I now find myself in a stalemate with time...sinking deeper and deeper in seclusion...Looking up and slowly forgetting what was beyond the rippling surface...convincing myself that it's a terrible realm filled with people who must hate me. How hard is it really...to stay afloat? There are big, knobbly hands on my feet, pulling me down and my efforts to shrug it off are weakened by...by guilt and shame...perhaps...all the while consumed by the nauseating consciousness of how incredibly inane it all is...of how easy it is to overcome it...my heart both justifying and bemoaning the battle. I am starting to wonder if I am in need of professional help... and having touched this idea, believing it by each passing second...the availabilty of a resident psychiatrist solidifying the case even more. Maybe I should...try a session...


I'd be lying to deny that the image of someone's hand reaching out to pull me back (by the collar of my shirt) would so often cross my mind but... that's just one part of my mind, the rest rebels against the very idea, not triumphing through sheer force of will alien and acceptable...even though I'm flailing this hard.


Spending too many hours on my own made me susceptible to visits from my dark, twisty thoughts and I thought for sure I have lost what light my Mediamax family have shone on me...I thought for sure I'd revert back to never trusting people, to thinking I'm better off on my own...I thought for sure I'd never be enthralled in forging and nurturing bonds...


I feel sick. It's been a long time since I've felt this way...maybe I've been ill all along and the absence of writing made up for the failed diagnosis. Not writing things down make it easy for me to forget...to fan away the cloud of formless thougts hanging over my head.


The moment of regrettable clarity came in the death of a person I hold dear in my heart. The letter I wrote for him two years ago, lengthening with each passing month now sitting cold inside my closet never to be laid eyes on by the person it was meant for....Sir Pedro. I do not believe in the after life...after-life...afterlife...I don't even remember how to write it down...afterlife, in spirits and ghosts...but I have half a mind to fly to his hometown and bury the letter there. I will.


I have in my heart the memory of his kindness, the wisdom he shared with me and the fatherly look of understanding he sent in my direction whilst talking about things I was a fool to even think he wouldn't understand. I lost a dear friend and the news of it shook me. I shed no tear...but my body was drained of warmth the moment my head wrapped around the meaning of my student's post. It felt like...like time was at a standstill...for a second...maybe half a minute...maybe longer... I read the sentence again thinking I must have misunderstood...sat down and allowed myself to be swallowed by waves upon waves of regret.


The real tragedy was the world losing someone as precious as him- all those people robbed of the pleasure of meeting such a respectable man. He lived a long, fruitful life and have surrounded himself by people he loved and loved him in return.


If only I had acted sooner...


Regret is a bitch and very seldom does one get a visit from her that can be avenged...I still have those opportunites and I'd sooner gut myself open than let them pass.


So despite it being three years, give or take, since I last bought an article of clothing, and although I went to the mall intending to buy either a pair of shoes or a jacket...I came home with a new book to bed and a new journal to spend time with in dimly lit coffee shops.


And when I get home, I'll plant a roundhouse kick to the clock...


And feel miserable about every goddamn thing I just wrote because my worries are dwarfened by the atrocities committed by IS and the feeling of helplessness, the lack of power to do anything to significantly change it...always...ALWAYS...my frustrated tears dried up and this newfound crippling pain possibly dulled by the ho-hum of tomorrow's daily routine...


Nov. 30th, 2014

Cosmos

FIREFLY




Nov. 19th, 2014

run run run

Climax Jump!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It was one of those things.


Even without being capable of pointing out the reasons that make it so, you know without an iota of doubt that it must be done. ...Like eating Pringles. Every cell in your body shrieks in defiance, rebelling at the very thought of committing to something that reeks of rancid regret. In that brief moment, I became conscious of the dichotomy within my head; a division of function that transpired during what now seems to me as literally the longest five minutes of my life. Much like that time I slowly succumbed to the void in the process of fainting in front of my dentist's clinic (because while I have no problem seeing other people's blood, I apparently can't stand my own), I thought to myself, OMG...this is just like some anime scene...*yay* *faints* A part of my brain soaked in the words and the meaning behind what my trainor, my possible mentor, shared in front of the class, but the rest of my brain, contrary to the war-zone that usually cuts my strings during such key moments in my life, was zen. I was zen. Zen as Master Yoda. Enlightened like Buddha. Master frigging Oogway. I was Ogden frigging Stonehealer.


I have to leave this place.


The thoughts that formed in my head were as natural as my habit of walking over and trying to strike a conversation with anyone sporting anything that bears the logo of One Piece. It was naught but a reaffirmation of that which I was already aware of. It must be done. it must be done. It must be done. There are many things I wish I could redo but it all means nothing. I can only move forward. Nothing in this world is truer than the realization that dawned on me then. It must be done.


I scribbled down the decision on my journal and passed it to my friend.


I've made up my mind.


What.


No.


It's such a waste.



It was the scholarship I've been spazzing about. The one I spent sleepless nights to prepare for the interview and the brief presentation of my drawing skills and PR abilities. I do want it. I did want it. I worked hard for it. I cried over getting the confirmation for it. BUT. I have to leave. IT MUST BE DONE.


When I saw the conditions set on the paper I have to sign, a contract I will be bound to for years to come had I done it, my hand immediately dropped the pen and I knew I cannot continue. MUST GO BACK TO MAIN MENU AND LOAD GAME. It was not the path I have to take. It was specifically a 3D animation scholarship. I would have been mentored by Filipino and Korean TESDA animators, an offer I should not have been able to refuse... BUT....while I firmly believe that anything related to growth (unless it's a tumor and/or terrorists) is good, and while the scholarship will answer thousands of fee to hone my skills...it became clear that I was only there because no other option existed at the moment. It became clear that that skill points I want to spend on, for example, CONJURATION, will be used on LIGHT ARMOR and that it would take a ridiculously long time to level up and get those points back. I could spend them directly on CONJURATION and just learn to freaking dodge direct attacks, right? The image of someone who is sincerely enthusiastic in learning 3D animation not being able to get a spot on that program formed in my head and there I was sitting inside that room with half-assed feelings for it. I was a cesspool of corruption and hidden agendas. I felt like a scheming bastard. Sly. You kangdamn jerk! It left me feeling dirty.


I talked to my would have been mentor about it and he said that he understood my sentiments. I gave him back my unsigned contract, we hugged briefly, I waved goodbye to everyone in that room, my would have been classmates and my good friend. I bid farewell to the guards, all of whom have become my friends in the short visits I made during the qualification round.


It's such a waste.


Maybe. But back then and up until now, I feel no sense of regret. It has become a treasured memory, another fork in the road where I felt the weight of my fate hang entirely on my shoulders; where choosing one or the other would definitely affect my life as I know it forever. It was one of those moments where I felt that my decision truthfully mattered; where I made the frigging right one.  If anything, that little detour sparked the flame in my chest anew. My dream burned even brighter than before, chasing away the shadow of doubt and self-persecution that would so often blind side me during the dead of the night. I can do this. Sure I may have committed to it a little late but if don't even try then what the hell have I been watching all these anime and tokosatsu dramas for?!





If you give up, that's your last stop.


THERE IS NO TOO LATE.


And if I'm not going to give the game my all then I'd rather not play at all.


Kamen Rider Black holds a special place in my heart and as far as my memories take me, Minami Kotaro taught me the difference between good and evil, that though everybody despises you, you can still fight if even just one soul believes in you. (Sorry mom and dad and every adult that supervised my growth) The stupid imajins of Kamen Rider Den-O (much like One Piece), on the other hand, during a very uncertain point of my journey where I knew what I wanted but had no idea where to start, reminded me to never lose sight of my future self, to keep reaching for my climax from start to finish.


THERE IS NO TOO LATE!


The goal remains the same: to be a little less sucky with each passing day.


Trembling in the dark shadow of the collosal mountain that is my dream...I'm scared. Good. This is good.


If I'm not scared then it's not big enough, ne, stupid self?





Oct. 25th, 2014

IKM

AMOR FATI

The book materialized in my head almost as instantly as the offer was made. Its face formed in crystal clarity and eclipsed whatever it was that occupied my head beforehand, which was prolly a sexy TOP dancing to Doom Dada, the grainy feel of it already manifesting on my fingertips despite the fact that I've never really gotten past the translucent protective cover when I first held it in my hands. It beckoned to me once before. Its seemingly minimalist design bore colors that to me felt like how my body would breakdown when filtered through a prism made me grab it in ardor, its price making me the exact opposite. I moved on, convincing myself that it prolly wasn't as good as it could have been in the process.



So when my dear sister offered to get me a book in exchange for downloading songs for her phone, I already knew what to search for. Overlooking the minor detail that bribery is currently the primary mode of transaction in our household with the currency varying from in-game money/loots/dungeon running buddy, doing the laundry/other chores, food, and books...it would warm my mother's heart to know that her brood continue to bond over books.



I held it to my chest and grabbed another I've been eyeing for some time, the latter's pull not quite as strong as the other but still a desire to be reckoned with. So I stripped the previous of its protective cover and read the very first line. It hit me like a truck.



Ah. This is definitely my book.



2014-10-14-06-23-36_deco

Oct. 10th, 2014

Acchan

Fall

A sea of red bleeds into the background
As the darkness cowers from the sun
The autumn leaves kissing my feet are glinting in the light
Reflecting the seasons gone by in warm dyes.


The comfortable silence of gazing at the horizon
And the shuffling of foliage when kissed by a chilled breeze
They will not be suffered by my moving from this spot
Relying heavily on a gust of wind to come clear the path


The melancholy emanating from the dead tree remains
More captivating than the spectacle of the rising sun
Come night this beauty, too, shall fade
Without the warmth to remember it by
Til it stands bared in the morning glow
Still beautiful, still dead
Its roots still deeply burrowed.
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