Blinded by the silence of a thousand broken hearts...

It's that time of the month again. This here is another one of my 'older' compositions, that I decided to write... well... jus' for the heck of it, really. I was bored one afternoon, committed fingers to keyboard, and jus' kept on writing... as to how well do I exactly know myself. This is one composition that'll never be final and finished, for one person can never really know himself fully, yes?


Who am I? Really?

Mariano Ramon P. Baccay III. Son of Mariano Jr. and Lydia, younger sibling of Ma. Racquel Jossette, Georgia Camille, Isabel, and Katrina Socorro, and older sibling of Marco Lorenzo. A resident of Cebu, Philippines for 24 years, and Hanoi, Vietnam for one.

An idealist. A person who’s too curious for his own good. A person who’s a nice guy, but knows when not to be one. A doubtful Catholic, for he questions for the perception of faith. He believes in heaven, hell, and purgatory. Loves the color blue, but could probably change next month. A slacker. A person who doesn’t like to pretend to be someone he’s not. Doesn’t care about rumors that circulate around him, for that’s all that they are – rumors. A person likes to write the strangest literary pieces, including this one. A person who doesn’t have a problem letting down his pride, for he does not believe in the concept of pride. A guy who fears death, not for the thought of death itself, but for leaving loved ones behind. A wannabe philosopher. Then again, a wannabe baller. A person who cares deeply for his friends, for he knows in himself that he has selected them wisely. Someone who lives life with a few guiding principles that he’s selected…carefully. One hell of dreamer…but was told that the best of dreams are always unattainable. A person who has many questions in the game of life, but doesn’t expect them answered. A person who believes strongly in his own beliefs. A person who’s been told that he looks like an asshole, but only because his eyebrows naturally slope downwards. A person who doesn’t like to leave things unfinished, in whatever form. A person who owes another person three thousand bucks. A person who believes in what is right, and will fight for it if necessary. A person who will fight for the right reasons. A person who likes to learn. A person who keeps the strangest of things for memory’s sake. A person who can type at fifty words per minute. A person who likes to laugh, and at the same time someone who is not ashamed to cry. A person who enjoys reading. An emotional person. A person who enjoys happiness for others. He thinks that the worst feeling/s in the world are helplessness and rejection. A person who likes to talk, but knows when to shut up as well. A person who used to weigh 190 pounds, and is still currently trying to shed off some pounds, in vain. A person who enjoys the right company, and abhors the wrong one. A person who cannot imagine taking another person’s life, for whatever reason. He never said he didn’t believe it torture, though. A person who likes to make others laugh, even by making fun of himself. A person who can deal with failure, for failure is a part of learning. A person who has a hard time finding motivation, but once he does, nothing gets in his way. A person who likes to sleep. Not sleep around – just sleep. A person who enjoys learning, and keeps learning. Not necessarily in the field of academics, though. A person who’s always looking for things, yet easily sated. He’s also practically given up on government and politics.


Holla.

Hope dangles on a string...

It's been a while... again... The main problem when it comes to my blogging, I'd say, is that I find something I want to write about, then another, until I forget about what it was I wanted to write about to begin with. Here was one of them:

A month or so ago, I visited the southern provinces with family and friends. I rather enjoyed it.. it's good to take a break from the bustling city every so often. Visiting the provincial areas is also a humbling experience.

Since my 'kuya' is from there, we joined him to pay respects to his grandparents and relatives who've long passed away. For one, the cemetery there is not as 'glorified' as the ones I seldom see here in the city. There were graves that have been forgotten, and the overall maintenance of the place is something else to be desired. On the way to say our prayers, I noticed graves.. that looked like someone buried their shoes in them. I then noticed the date of birth and death... July 11, and July 12. One such headstone even stated that the newborn didn't even reach to be a day old. Now that was a humbling experience.

I came to think about it... and how devastated (if there's a word stronger than that, let me know) their families might've been. A newborn is always a joy to have around the house.. from gladly making an idiot out of yourself in public by telling them how cutesy-wutesy they are, from teaching it how to walk, speak, and being with them on great moments of their lives... Their first day of school, their first puppy love, their first hangover... well, maybe the last one doesn't apply for all of us.

But anyway, another thing I'd like to bring up is how people, especially the younger ones these days, seem to jus' waste away their lives. And we have these people who've never even had the chance to experience life... Life isn't all great as we know it, but isn't that the beauty of it?

What jus' pisses me off is that those infants who died without even reaching a month old would've prob'ly made much better use of people who decide to jus' waste away their lives.

Holla.

It's like a dream you try to remember, but it's gone...

The other day, I was jus' goin' through my old archives in my computer, particularly stuff I have written before. There were pieces which made me laugh out loud and say "I can't believe I wrote this..." There were also some in which made me shake my head and say... "I can't believe I wrote this." Finally, there were also those that made me stare harder into the computer monitor and.. Yup... I can't believe I wrote this.

I've no real point to prove in this blog entry... but jus' would like to post one of those things that I wrote before... a poem, to be exact. I'm not much of a poet, really... But I wrote this simple-three stanza poem... jus' for the hell of it, really. These three stanzas pretty much summed up how I felt back then. It's jus' good to look back on some things, y'know?

To spend my eternity with you,

Is something I am dreaming to do,

For it is you always in my heart.

All those nights we were together,

How I wish those lasted forever,

For it is you always in my heart.

It is now that I find it hard to live,

For it was your love you refused to give.

For it is you always in my heart.

I see a red door and I want it painted black.

It’s been God-knows-how-long since I last wrote. People have asked me why I haven’t... and come to think of it... I don’t have an answer to it! I even came to myself ask myself as to why I haven’t written ‘bout anything in the longest time... almost a year, to be precise.

Well, I’ve noticed that in my writing, I am always influenced by outside factors – i.e. (I never knew what that meant) something I read, saw, or felt. Well, I’ve seen, read, and felt a lot of things in the past eight or so months, but that’s not what I’m here to write about – not today, anyway.

Jus’ the other week, I was readin’ up on an old issue of a magazine... and an article that caught my eye was of Jack The Ripper. We all know or of heard of the name, and we immediately assume the stereotype of a mass-murderer – a tall, average built man, brooding, with heavy eyes with a look of a desire to kill. Y’know... like the ones we see in horror gut-slicing and spilling movies of late. Walter Snickert wasn’t exactly the stereotype of a criminal. As stated, he was actually quite handsome with sharp hawk-like features, and he was even involved in theatre in his time.

Which leads to what puzzles me... what turned a theatre actor into one of the world’s most notorious criminals - the criminal mastermind that was Jack The Ripper? Also, one of the things ‘Jack’ was notorious for was that he only killed women. Prostitutes. It wasn’t even like he’d screw them; he jus’ kills them straight up. The article described, in impressive detail, how Walter had lived his life, up to the point to his first murder. Speaking of which, the thing that disturbed me the most about Mr. Snickert, is that he was a respected artist in his time. It was said that it wasn’t until recently that Ripper’s true identity was known. Walter Snickert’s most famous piece of art was called The Camden Town Murder... in which it shows a nude woman (presumably dead), and a man, fully dressed, sitting at the end of the bed with his head dropped and fingers pressed together. We would assume it was Walter who was that man, painting himself in the picture. What was going through his mind after he killed that woman? Was he contemplating the fact of what he did... or relishing the fact that he killed someone? The painting is part abstract, almost surreal, that we can’t see the man’s facial expression clearly. The police report even stated that the woman’s evening gown wasn’t found in the room – they suspected that the killer might’ve brought it with him as a ‘trophy.’

What really goes through a psychopath’s mind? Walter Snickert is the, dare I say, perfect example for that question. A respected and talented young man, who would’ve had a great life ahead of him, decides to turn into a sick life of crime. I mean, come now, did he wake up one morning, get a scalpel, and decide to start slitting women’s throats? Was he a crazed-up chaotic self-proclaimed avenger, ridding the world of criminal women?

Even in recent times, what goes on in the mind of rapists, killers, and terrorists? Well, we can assume that rapists are just ugly, horny people... that some terrorists believe in a reward through self-sacrifice, and some killers here in the Philippines had some beef to settle with their victim, anyway. But how about serial killers, who Jack The Ripper was one of the most famous. What really went through his mind every time he went out and killed someone? Can taking a person’s life turn into an addiction, and if such is the case, what made them kill their first victim? Serial killers, for that matter - what makes them decide to throw their lives away? What can they possibly gain from killing numerous people? Is it a twisted sense of satisfaction for them?

My own personal theory is that killing someone is a way to prove one’s superiority over another. It’s like showing them that because one can kill another, one proves that he can do what they want, when they want. In The Ripper’s case, he killed women to show that he was superior to them.

It’s a pity, really. People admired Walter Snickert’s artistic work... not Jack The Ripper’s.

Holla.