Putting dates and timestamps in writings is a necessary contextualizer.
I have unlearned hypergraphia via a hectic schedule and the nagging obligation to finish the most verbose documentation “5 Days in Japan”. The documenting became a chore.
Nonetheless I must continue to do the documentation while the memories haven’t faded permanently, so that I could go back and virtually reexperience Japan through reading the diary.
Ideas are organic.
I was itching to go home. At the eleventh floor lobby, I waited for the elevator.
The elevator door opened; in it was three people. As I stepped in, I thought how perfect it is now we’re four. In the few seconds we were in that rectangular metal box, I imagined we each had our corner for ourselves. Four corners of the oblate spheroid world ruled by the four people in the elevator.
At a loss for… thoughts. Is that possible?
Surrealism is poetic. Poetry is surreal.
Traffic is congested on Dona Soledad. But mother has to bear with the consequences of being late (for 4 more years, I’m sorry in advance).
I hope, with all my heart and soul and body, that this will all pay-off in the future.
This routine is still so temporary. Given I will live a full life, I will switch jobs, have a boyfriend, get married, have kids, retire. So this– this– every morning routine will be fleeting.
I just saw the Makati skyline again. It gave me goosebumps as I realize this beautiful landscape visited daily won’t be forever.
I missed you Pink Notebook, where the fragilest of thoughts laid down, organized, Ikebanized.
How do I waste 10 minutes?
In meaningless pastiche.
I think I forgot how to think in paper. Let me remember. Do I need a topic? A weird idea for foundation? Why haven’t I been philosophizing recently? Well, I have become too involved with reality. Visa, et al. Sir Jun leaving. Bon arriving. Movie editing. Opportunities presenting itself.
If I were asked to paint a vase of flowers, I will make it ugly-beautiful. Ugly-beautiful. Realistic. Beautiful, but ugly, but beautiful. Like a portrait of a woman, blemished, with cow licks, a bit assymetrical, but still beautiful, ugly-beautiful.
Real is ugly-beautiful.
I am running late. But I don’t care anymore. I feel as if I were that guy from Eternal Sunshine hunched over his journal whispering lead sweetnothings on paper.
Az’s text renders me speechless.
We are but chemical proceses shuffling about.
Fuck. Thinking about the magnificence of this chance makes me cry.
It just so happened that the random interaction of molecules brought about something as precious as life. That now has evolved.
Aren’t we fleeting.
No matter how hard we try, we will be relegated into oblivion in the future.
Even ideas aren’t immortal.
Concrete example: If the sun crashes into earth (or earth crash unto sun), everything will be lost.
The universe will again wait for this right condition, right atom interaction.
I write for leisure.
Physicist x philosopher = mind of God.
Mind x heart = mind x heart
Physics is an attempt to explain the universe. All fields of study do. We subconsciously want to understand the workings of life, society, the universe,
Fragments are all we have.
We can never have a full understanding of anything
I let the sky turn purple or dark gray. And then the gray matter or clear matter fall upon the ground as drops of rain… What is rain? When was the rain invented? Let me recount that memory… Weave a fabrication. Fabricate a memory. Narrate a fiction.
The kiss of pen and paper is a magical moment.
The whole paper is a big fat lip,
and the end of a pen, atomic lip.
Continuous atomic smacking.
Black against white, or white against black. The difference of color is but a change in wave frequency, in packets of photons expended.
WILL I EVER RUN OUT OF THOUGHTS?