House of Memory

Dearest, I feel like I haven't been, for awhile, at rest. Lately, I don't feel myself that much at my best. In this world, that just how the way of things, I guess. Life, yes, it's sucks-- one moment it's like a gritty urban drama, then shortly after, it shifts into a sidesplitting jest. Resembling that kind of splendid view of an erupting volcano, a beautiful disaster, but would turn into some kind of an old-time mess. I guess, it is a quest or a test, to take that sea with nothing but a vest. So, yes, step in to the world dressed with spirit and zest. Greatly, Dearest.

Ilang araw na mababaw ang luha siguro ilang araw na ring kasing pinipigilan ang pag-iyak nakakulong lang sa dibdib an bigat na nararamdaman ang hirap buhatin nakakasakal sa lalamunan parang may pighating nakabara roon gusto kumawala pero tinitikom na lang ang bibig para hindi umimpit ang sakit na ilang araw nang binobote ng nagpapanggap na tapang. lihim na tumatakas ang luha minsan tuwing walang tao at nakapirmi ang titig sa kawalan minsan tulala tinatanaw ang mga alaala na sana kayang buhayin ng pagmumuni-muni. nasan ka na kaya Nay? sumisikip ang dibdib tuwing iniisip na marahil naglalakbay ka lang mag-isa... tinatawag ang mga pangalan namin pero hindi na abot ng boses mo ang mundong nalisan mo na at ang sakit na isipin na hindi na kita makikita tuwing umaga paggising ko hindi ka na hihingi sa akin ng pabor na isabay ang kape mo sa pagtimpla ko hindi na kita masusubuan muli ng kanin at hiniwa-hiwang saging hindi mo na kami makukulit at patutulugin sa gabi... Nay, nasan ka na. Umi

He's on the stage and they can feel the magic.  His silhouette against the frisky tight arc of lights in the centre of his musical space dimmed by the smoky-colored of passionate breaths.  A cacophony of defeaning sounds break off: stereo living in their ears,  the impassioned gusto of instrumentals tolerating their temporary incapability, the jarring voices of people, the commotion of thoughts in their head  (They've consistently been forcing back into some semblance of order) But they have always been there-- (comfortably or maybe because they have already used with the feeling) In chaos, that's where, where the smell of sweats and collective urban gasps of depressed people are suspended in the air.  The melody of his voice echoes their experiences: the brokenness,  confinement,  and mental exhaustion.  And when he touches the air and looks somewhere in between the depth of the void and the ocean of people's burden-filled eyes,  they feel escaped.  He whispers his son