greater plane

Whenever I rummage too far in the realm of cyberspace, sometimes I end up dumbfounded whenever tabs are parading on the top of Google Chrome. And perhaps the most bewildering is I am sometimes reading hagiographies. (Encarta it.)

My sociology professor theorized that by human nature, faith in the Supreme Being is generally formalized during childhood, takes a dip during the adolescent to young adult years because of too much temptations, and as our lives progress to twilight and our heydays lose its glimmer, the more occasional we will kneel before the Sacrament.

But everything has exception: when the body takes the beating of the mundane world, a ray of heaven's light is suddenly casted on us.

My interest was once piqued on the thought of a patron saint for people living with HIV. Unfortunately, there is none. But here we have St. Peregrine Laziosi. (Google it.) Some say that he is the patron for chronic diseases, where HIV falls. The debate is open as to who really is to preside in the intercession of each and every HIV-positive's prayer.

a wound

Be Positive PH once emailed and asked if I could share my story to them. Here is my post.

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A moment's wound for one could be a lifetime for others.

With a tone that sounded as if the Earth being round, an office mate of mine heralded to us that in dire cases when bandages are out of hand, a scotch tape is a good alternative.

I wasn't really minding the dude since it's midday and work is starting to nail us. If not because of the shrieking "OMG" of another lady office mate, I would go on ignoring them.

I turned to where the commotion was. Blood. I saw blood. Blood that spewed and unsightly at the finger of my office mate sitting next to me. And not just blood, a finger of his was covered with scotch tape in a vain attempt to substitute for the loss of bandage. So that was his announcement. Pwede rin pala ang scotch tape, no? he said.

The wound he's nursing was all too perfect for me to do the cringe: my neck muscle strained, one of my leg folded and suddenly raised, and my eye twitched. My cringe strings always get the pulling whenever a badly mended wound is in sight.

He took some time in explaining what happened. Apparently, the metal label of his netbook created a nasty slice on his finger without him knowing it just when he pulled out the contraption. As things happened quickly, it was painless. The next thing he knew was he was looking for a band aid, but the good secretary offered a pathetic solution to none that is scotch tape. He said the bleeding stopped, which was good, but his appendage was still soaking in sanguine splendor.

sa likod mo

Disclaimer: This may be kinda creepy.

Too much My Ghost Story and Celebrity Ghost Stories on BIO leads me nowhere but to believe that there is zone between heaven and Earth that allows spirit to communicate and interact with the living for a moment's time. I've always been a believer of the afterlife, but it has come full circle when these two shows barraged me with testimonies of spirits trapped, visiting, or simply still lolling on Earth.

My mom's genes passed down a peculiar trait: a mildly open sixth sense. I and my siblings would like to believe that we are more capable of feeling the unearthly souls strolling upon us compared to our peers. And in the brood, I'd like to assume that I am the more "blessed" (Yes, I like to look at it that way.)

qt: unrequited

I'm sorry to say this,

but those who are most worthy of love

are never made happy by it.

Do you still think men love the way we do? No.

Men enjoy the happiness they feel.

We can only enjoy the happiness we give.

They are not capable of devoting themselves

exclusively to one person.

So to hope to be made happy by love

is a certain cause of grief.

-- Madame de Rosemonde, Dangerous Liaisons

one-way street

By way of sheer luck and mastered Googling techniques, I finally found the personal virtual space of a distant crush I've been fawning over for most of the days back in college. And whaddyaknow, nothing makes me more smitten than a boy who despite the wretchedness of heartache can still sound romantic.

I broke the news of my underrated feat to some of my college dudettes who knew of my ogling over him. He's a literature major. Suffice to say a man who perfected the art of personal harakiri. To puncture himself and let his feelings gush forth, what is immortalized by way of lyrical essay, poems, and the one I love the most, a staccato letter.

Under 20 minutes I've tranced. Eyes whirling. Mind throbbing. Crimson tide rushing. Unfettered panicking started to engulf me for reasons unknown to me. Line by line the pieces of puzzle showed a forlorn heart which he tried to salvage by clinging onto promises of reparation. Sent and letters unsent, he said, to the other boy he fell in love with.

Our overdue guessing game was over. I was right. My girl friends who also liked him made way for an admission that bruised the feminine psyche. "One of you, I suppose," a friend told me. That was a balm for the spirit.

He was a distant familiar face. On days when our college building was a perfect shelter for the afternoon smoltering heat, he was the needed zephyr. Their class isn't that big a population. And since they're a woman-dominated major, as ours too, boys are easily seen from the sea of skirt. If my memory would be correct in conjuring memories stowed in the depth of my past, he's a sheepish character. He walked laggardly, usually skidding his feet onto the years-olden tiles of the hallways adjacent to ours. He would innocently hold tight onto his bag strap, as if some cat is chained inside to prevent it from leaping out. And when I'd meet his eyes, quietly he would look away.

Years have gone by and bygones were bygones, he suddenly reappeared. For Fate's no good reason and reasons I wouldn't want to know either. It dawned on me that he's nursing a pulverized heart. His words, despite sullen, and apologies sincere to its core, fell flat for the man he loved. I couldn't blame the other though for it was he, he professed to the cyberworld, who took the run away. His is his personal life and no other could put resolution into it than him alone. Let he be his Oedipus and with that I step back.

It'd be fatal to put this up on where we've been following each other. That'd be a ticket to doomsday. At the very least, after so much egging and convincing from my daredevil woman-friends, I finally followed him. Some part of me died from guilt, but have resurrected when the revelation came that I was on his reading list already.

My thoughts are awashed, frittering away in the drizzle. And this post could easily perish when it squeak past through to the backburner. But I have to get this thought down else it may threaten the life it belongs to. This is badly written and perhaps will end up this way.

Of course I make no hint before him about my growing fascination for him. Let this be a one-way street of admiration. Like Northern Star rising. The one you can easily spot amid the crystalline twinkling of the stars scattered even on a mantle of darkness. The celestial gem that's seen but unknown.