Musings on an Impasse

The principle of conservation of energy states that
the total energy of an isolated system is constant.
Energy, therefore, can neither be created nor destroyed.

In a grandfather clock,
a pendulum is suspended in perpetual motion—
unwavering, earnest, sedulous.
Its hands faithfully thrust forward,
moving at a steady pace,
only to begin its journey again.

In the open ocean,
approximately eight kilometers from the shoreline,
a buoy bobs interminably with the current—
enduring, steadfast, hopeful.
It stays anchored in the same place
even when the tide changes.

A marathon cannot be won on a treadmill.
Movement is an illusion.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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© Nocturnal Scribe, 2018

Musings on Thought Intruders

Ever since I wrote that poem,
all I ever think of now is you.
And I really, really, really
need you 
to stop forcing your way
into the crowded spaces
of my mind,
into spaces
you constantly insist on occupying.
Because it's ten minutes past midnight
and I really, really, really
need to 
finish my thesis.
And I can't concentrate when
all I ever think of now is you,
ever since I wrote that poem.

-Nocturnal Scribe

Note: March 8, 2013; 12:00am

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None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2013

Musings on Feeling Conflicted

Every time I go out,
I always find myself
hoping
for even just a glimpse
of your brown, bespectacled face.

I don't know
when this started happening,
but one thing's for sure:
It started out as something
subconscious.
Now,
I'm fully aware
of how much
I want
to see you.

I tried
to assess my feelings
(or lack of)
by using a checklist
of the usual symptoms
of infatuation
as my guide.

Do I think about you often?
No.

Have my sleeping patterns
and eating habits
changed?
No.

Does your smile
make me have
butterflies in my stomach?
No.

Do I feel the urge
to gush about you
to my closest friends?
No.

Does my heart beat faster
when we talk?
No.

Have I ever dreamed about you?
Twice.

Do I stalk you
over the internet?
Well...I wouldn't really go so far
as to calling it stalking
because stalking would imply...
Alright, alright. Fine.
Yes.

Do I like you?
Possibly.

Well, at least I think
your smile is cute.
I think
your idiosyncrasies are cute, too.

Like how you seem to have
only one hand gesture when you speak;
Like how you slouch
when you walk;
Like how you look shy and sometimes stammer
but are actually really smart.
Like how you memorized
my Youtube comment
on a certain video and
"nonchalantly" tried to ask me
 if I had a Youtube account.

But that's it.
I just think you're cute.
Like a giant brown teddybear
that wears glasses
and amusing polo shirts.

So I'm certain
this isn't love.
Definitely NOT love.

A crush, maybe?

But I answered no
to almost all the questions
in the checklist.

Yet I always find myself
hoping
for even just a glimpse
of your brown, bespectacled face
whenever I go out.

And I'm writing a poem about you,
for crying out loud!

And I don't think
I like you
in that way,
but I still like you...I guess.

So I don't understand why
I feel this conflicted
about you
when I don't think
I even have a crush on you.
And I don't understand why
I want to make you
feel jealous,
which is absolutely ludricrous,
because I'll bet
you don't even remember
my name.
And I don't understand why
a smile blossoms on my face
whenever I get the chance to greet you:
"Good morning, ***."

-Nocturnal Scribe

Note: March 2, 2013; 12:00am

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None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2013

Musings on What Couldn't Be

My notebook was filled
with doodles of my name
with your last name
always
attached lovingly at the end
instead of notes
on the elements of poetry
I was supposed to write down.

I didn't think
I needed to learn
about poetry
anymore,
because you were
my poetry.

Penciled hearts scattered its pages.
It was a notebook of hope.

I did a FLAMES of our names,
and with fourteen letters
crushed out,
we added up to L.
It was a sign.
I knew it was.

And you were
my poetry.
Your name was poetry.
Your hello was poetry.
Your smile was poetry.
You were my
definition for love.

You loved me, too.
That, I knew.
It was in the way
you said my name,
in the way
you looked at me.
And maybe,
just maybe,
I was poetry to you, too.

But there was too much pride
on both our sides,
and things ended
before they could even begin.

So to quote the lovely Spektor:
"You are 
my sweetest downfall.
I loved you first."

And you will always be
the one
I loved first,
even though the penciled hearts
on my tattered notebook
have long since
faded away.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2012

Musings on Garbage

You must think you’re so witty
with the way you pepper swear words
generously into your colloquies; or
with the way you give out sarcastic repartees
in response to offensive jokes
and expect us to laugh and choke                                                     
on our iced teas. 
“F this piece of S and F that F-ing B.”
“OMG! Ha-ha. You’re such an F-ing D-head.”
Don’t mistake my silence for admiration.
Do you have nothing else in your vocabulary?

You must think you’re so funny

with the way you flip the bird

at people randomly

and claim it’s just half a peace sign; or

with the way you gesture inappropriately

at people you call your friends.

You say it’s natural to call them by

degrading names, and say that if they

get insulted, then they’re not your ‘real friends’.

If that’s what friendship is to you,

how many of them did you rend?

You must think you’re so cool

with the way you blatantly talk about porn at the table

and assume you’re doing everyone a favor

by sharing your favorite sites; or

with the way you unflinchingly tell

us about things you did with a friend at a hotel

that just make the rest of us feel uncomfortable.

You must have noticed me looking pensive,

because you started getting all defensive.

“What? I’m just being honest here.”

No one asked you to be.

The whole time, I kept silent as I listened

to you stoop to your lowest possible level.

My ears burned with words I tried to not comprehend

and kept my eyes glued to the gravel.

”What you say flows from what is in your heart.”

It says in Luke chapter six, verse forty-five.

You may call me ignorant and naïve,

but within those fifteen minutes of listening

I was certain I could determine

the exact contents of your heart, and

trust me when I say not once did you sound smart.

You must think you’re so great

with the way you just behaved

in those fifteen minutes since we first met

that you’re probably willing to bet

that I’m just dying to be your friend.

But I’d like to give you a reality check

And show you that you’re just up to your neck

in an attitude problem that needs to end.

And until you realize this, I will be praying for you.

I will be praying for you.

I will be praying for you.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2012

Musings on Keeping Promises

When I was a child,
I asked a grown-up why adults
don't like watching cartoons.

"It's just not as entertaining for us anymore."
She replied.

And from that moment on,
I swore to myself that,
no matter how old I'd get,
I would still watch cartoons.

When I was a child,
I loved eating hard-boiled eggs and noticed
that my tutor didn't like eating them.
So I asked her why.

"I used to like eggs when I was younger,
but I don't like them as much anymore."
She replied.

And from that moment on,
I swore to myself that,
now matter how old I'd get,
I would still like eating hard-boiled eggs.

When I was a child,
I read a poem and noticed
that the writer had spelled the word 'through'
as T-H-R-U.
So I asked my mom why.

"It's poetic license."
My mom replied.

Now, I didn't exactly know
what a poetic license was,
but from that moment on,
I swore to myself that,
no matter what,
I would get a poetic license.
I didn't even care so much if
I'd ever get a driver's license or not,
as long as I'd get a poetic one.

When I was a child,
my dad told me,
"You're not allowed to have a boyfriend
until you're in college."

So from that moment on,
I swore to myself that,
no matter what,
I would wait for the right guy to come along
so I could fall in love with him
and have a love story
as good as my mom and dad's.

If little me were standing
in front of grown-up me right now,
I'd like to think that she'd be pleased
with how I've managed
to keep all those promises
after all these years.

Because I still love watching cartoons
and eating hard-boiled eggs.
And, yes, I do have poetic license.
And I'm still waiting for the right guy to come along
so I could fall in love with him
and have a love story
as good as my mom and dad's.

-Nocturnal Scribe

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None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2012

Musings on Longing

It's been four years--
four years,
four years...
And you'd think that by now,
I'd have gotten over it.

Well,
it seems like I haven't.
I mean,
I don't always think about it,
but whenever December comes
waltzing
around the corner,
that familiar sense of longing,
that ebbing pain
resurfaces.
And I spend December
in regret
thinking
of bitter
"what ifs".

What if ... I hadn't let him out of my sight?
What if ... he hadn't left me?
What if ... I had done this or that instead?
What if ... things had been done differently?

We'd still be
together,
that's what.
But
it's useless to try to
turn back time in my mind
because what's done
is done.

All I can do now
is hope and pray
that he'll come back...
that I can find him...

Because
believe me,
I've looked.
For four years
I've looked.
And sometimes,
I wonder
if he ever
looks back.

Looks back to that day
at Colon, near Jollibee, Leon Kilat;
or
looks back to that day
at the plaza under the Tambis tree;
or
looks back to that day
at the lake in the woods.

Because I do.

I look back...
and I
remember.

I remember
the intense gaze of his gray eyes.
I remember
his quick grin.
I remember
the way his hair would fall back against his forehead
after he'd brush it away with his fingers.
I remember
how protective
and kind
and generous
he was and
how good he was with kids.
I remember
his charismatic and adventurous spirit.
I remember
that day at the basketball court when
he was so brave when
Carlo threatened him.
I remember
how much he loved
spaghetti.

But...that's all there is
left of him.
Memories.
It's December again.
And I find myself singing
this song:

"So I go back to December,
turn around and make it alright;
I go back to December
all the time."


Come back,
Raphael.
I miss you.

-Nocturnal Scribe

This blog is protected by the Philippine Copyright Law, Republic Act 8293.

None of the posts in this blog may be reproduced or copied—either completely or partially—in any forms or by any means without permission in writing to the Author.

© Nocturnal Scribe, 2011