They say: shit rolls down hill and when it rains, it pours… so I may as well scream out loud: It’s raining shit!

When things get awfully screwed up they turn to worse and the same is happening to me right now. And all I could do is curse in various languages. Trust me it’s a talent that I don’t want anyone to know.. and I don’t want to direct at anyone.

So with flaring nostrils and itchy talons, I will bottle these all up. Hopefully it will detonate by itself and I will be able to pass it out as GAS. Bleeping gas, so help me god!

I am in a cafe stealing precious time to write and think.

I never thought being in a cafe could be this blissful, considering the faded letters of the keyboard, the rickety chair and the amount of money that these people are going to charge me.

Don’t go far off… by Pablo Neruda

Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because —
because — I don’t know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don’t leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don’t leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you’ll have gone so far
I’ll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

The emotion that this poem evokes is similar to the feeling of being wet under the rain, of leaning into long, cold and bleak afternoons.. of forever waiting for a lover, of great longings that cross seas and of despair.

I too was young once. I had my share of wild days and endless nights of questioning life and god. I’ve pondered on my purpose and dreamt grand and big. I’ve failed, fallen and fought hard to remain afloat.

I now have children of my own and sometimes, in the dead of the night I wonder about myself as a parent and the lives that my children will lead. I would cry and say a prayer and strike stupid bargains with the divinities. I found myself fervently trying to stay alive again and this time, for my children’s sake.

My love for s inging is pretty obvious, eh? While the rest of my friends dropped everything to pose for the camera, I went ahead and sang with all my lungs, throat and trachea.

Lucky, there’s no audio streaming here, you could have heard how a banshee screams.

Watch out! There’s a kink in my head.

The thing about being too aware of your self is that you cannot fool yourself and blame your lousy mood on hormones, PMS or the weather. I know for a fact that I am a bitch. It’s the other side of my persona.

I could become a raging bitch even without provocation and I am not too proud of it. In fact, I don’t want my children to think of me as the perennial bitch in the house. As much as I could, I try my best to cultivate in them a good mental representation of me.

Take this scene as an example. I and Una are in the bathroom, humming a tuneless tune and I am having this general sense of contentment and peace as I shampoo her hair. Then she say, touch the walls of the bathroom and I freak out. I’ve told her to never touch the bathroom tiles. I have this paranoia that bath tiles, no matter how white and shiny are full of germs that only a bathroom can grow. I would blow everything away by screaming, the kind that wakes everyone within one mile radius. And then I would continue to yak about germs and following rules and so on and so forth. My daughter is only 23, 23 months old.

But no, Una doesn’t cry. Maybe she’s beginning to think that my screaming is just my way of animating our talk for the imp would just continue doing whatever it is that she intends to do – and this case, lick her fingers, the same ones that brushed the damn tiles.