Electric Itlog

An archive of what was and what will be...

Thursday, July 19, 2007

The Very Long Blog Post (with a very long title and hints of subtexts that are not really subtexts but truths that are veiled by a fear of reality)

WARNING: This posts contains several passages from different murder and thriller stories in progress. They are included within the post as part of an experimental subtexted writing style. Stop reading if you're queasy.

WARNING: This posts contains several passages from different murder and thriller stories in progress. They are included within the post as part of an experimental subtexted writing style. Stop reading if you're queasy.

Yes, I am very, very scared. Frightened to death of the things that come my way.

It was a sunny day in Alabang. Too sunny, Jean thought to himself. Too hot, I should guess, that Jean decided to shoot his daughter dead.

I guess you could say that the smoke has finally started to go down, and that my vision is slowly becoming clearer. The few months spent on trying to fix everything is finally taking their final bow, and the curtains are now being closed upon a dark chapter of my life. But instead of the light of the auditorium coming to rescue the audience and guiding them back towards the exit to face again the realities of this world, it seems to me that the booth has forgotten its work, and the people inside are left to wonder aimlessly in the dark, trying to find their way back towards the light--stumbling stupidly upon every block that sits on their path.

I have never been a person of emotions, and I am open to admit that I am not an expert on the subject. Yes, you can hear me babble on everything philosophical, technical and informational. But when I turn off the mind and listen to the heart, I only hear a string of static, blocking every insight that I want to find.

It wasn't too long before Alice found out that what Eric was hiding behind his back was a knife. And she became ever more sure as the cold blade started to rip appart the skin on her throat, spilling out thick red blood upon the white carpet she washed the morning before.

If I look back on the months that I have spent trying to regain my life, I guess I am left to wonder how I survived it all. The tears and troubles paid for my stupidity and my laziness are now but distant memories of a darker age. My dawn should be here by now, and I see the bright yellow rays from the distance. But why am I still in the dark?

Yes, I am happy--in a sense much like being fed after a months' worth of hunger. But I am not satisfied, nor am I really happy (in the sense I would like to believe).

I try to be philosophical when I define happiness: a temporary or extended state of emotion. Yet I try to find solace that happiness, contrary to what my mind tells me or my religion teaches, could not be temporary or extended. If bliss, as it says, is not found on this plane of existence, then I am proud to be a heretic.

No one was in the apartment that evening and it seemed as if everyone has decided to leave the boarding house for the weekend to celebrate the Holy Week. But little did Tricia know that she was about to see three of her roommates lying inside their room--with their heads severed and arms cut off.

I am happy as of the moment: I have a descent flow of income, I love my work, I have a loving family and a great set of friends, what more could I ask for?.. Well, there is a saying that when your career blooms, your love life fades. And this is exactly why I am still rotting.

It seems unfortunate that I am not able to do as I want. The answer is clear, yet it hurts.

I love people who could not love me. People want my love but I could not give it. I love others, and hope that they love me back, only to find out that I am weak--weak enough to fear of what might happen next. I am in love, but I am not in love.

To give something I must have that something. Else I fall into the delusion that I am worthy of giving. I'd rather see them happy in the arms of someone else, knowing that in mine they shall only thirst for something I could not provide. However I want it, man could not live with love alone.

Jacob was certainly in a good mood as he combed his hair in front of the mirror, humming a dance tune he had heard the night before. "This will be a fun night," he said to himself quietly. And in fact, the night did turn out quite well. Until the point he had to strangle his girlfriend.

My mind and my heart are one. My mind and my heart are not one. My body and my soul are similar. My body and my soul are not similar. I love someone, I don't love someone. I don't love someone, I love someone else. I love them both. I love them not.

Being in my position is not easy as it looks. I'm sorry, but my shoes are hard to fill. Believe me, I would do anything, anything. But I cannot change.

Why? Because change happens when something else happens, like when a fruit grows after the flower dies. To change something means to give up something else. And I could not give up who I am.

Mary always knew she married the perfect man, and all her friends thought so too. John was certainly Mr. Right--tall, dark, handsome and works with a large marketing firm that pays him more than he could ever spend. He was really the perfect guy, for even the way he disembowels his brides is a perfect technique.

Knowing that I was once a neopagan, my friend asked me once what would happen if someone I love dearly asks me to change my philosophy, my beliefs and my way of life. In a whirl of poignant emotions, I responded that I will not change.

I guess it's a large babble, with many subtexts, alternate meanings and other things like that. Medium not the message. The man is not the blog.

What is the sound of one hand clapping? Is it half-full or half-empty?.. I try to answer, but my mouth bites a branch of a tree.

You know I am scared. I have always been. So why the hell am I still dating?

Fred was panting. He just ran a mile, and he knows that there's no way that the man in the dark suit could find him. But it was he who found something. His eyes slowly grew larger, when he saw the bones of his mother, which he threw on this spot five years ago after he killed her.

DISCLAIMER: This posts contains various ideas on different topics. Do not try interpreting the text. Do not give it any meaning other. This work is a literary experiment. Nothing more.



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