Word du jour: emacity

I've always wondered why this word is extremely similar with emaciated, which represents the complete opposite side of the spectrum. Here's the lexicon.

Of course everyone knows that the word emaciated means extremely weakened or thin, which probably stemmed from not spending money. Yeah, English is kinda weird.

This is a belated blog post, which was supposed to be published yesterday. Unfortunately, I was out camping. Yeah summah.

Unspoken words and inducted thoughts

Many have I written blogposts that touch a specific topic so personal I feel that writing them is an invasion of my personal space. If my drafts folder ever get published, you'd view me as a different person.

I mean, this blog *is* meant to be personal, it's just that some things I want to talk about are not really the stuff you would like to say to a random stranger across the street. Just think of it this way: would you just go up to a random passerby and interject, "I'm going commando today!"? I don't think so.

But then, I'm not implying that my personal, most private thoughts consist of my preference for wearing underwear, or lack thereof, but it just goes to show that I need someone to tell stuff to, without prejudice or any other judgment. A confidant. A breathing journal. And probably, a friend.

I have written posts about trust and love and freedom and independence, but they never see the light of day. Probably I was playing the role of the cryptic connoisseur a bit too much, probably my real intentions are muddled up in a sea of confusing lexicon that nobody would understand. But then again, nobody *would* understand. I'm a Scorpio, the most secretive, most misunderstood sign of the zodiac.

I was once punished for my own honesty. Writing my thoughts down led me into serious trouble, something that reminded me of pain and crying and all that desperation. Then I vowed never to write my emotions again: that never would I ever put my feelings down on a piece of paper where everyone could read it. I must lock up all my feelings in my mind, compose long blog posts in the recesses of my consciousness, where only I could read.

I have stories I dare not tell anyone. Not publicly, at least. I think it's justified for me to think that everybody has one: that one fact about them that they don't want just about anyone to know. Like a vegetarian who adores bacon, or a football player who longs for the loving comfort of a gentle woman. Unlike others, though, I don't have anyone to share it with. But probably I didn't need one anyway.

If only opening the lock was this easy.

But maybe I *do* have someone, I just don't trust them enough. Probably, somewhere out there, one of the people I know are having the exact same thoughts as I do, just waiting for someone like me to trust them with all of their spirit. An unbreakable friendship. Where you tell someone that one thing that will destroy you and trust them not to use it against you.

I don't think I'm even making a persuasive blogpost here. I just wanted to write what I feel about things, which is not my forte, because coming from a scientific background, I always write something with a conclusion. Not all this sappy boo-hooing shit you're reading right now. Is it ever so wrong for me not to just tell anyone how my day went and not go delving into waist-deep philosophical ramblings about life? Probably not.

I guess being cryptic has its disadvantages after all. By hiding my emotions, my real intentions, in the comforting illusion of deception, I shut myself out to the world. Then I go like this, complaining how no one understands me. It's probably my fault then, being so shut out to the people who want to reach out their hands to me, to offer their listening ear to my stories, because maybe, just maybe, one of the people I know sees me as an infinitely interesting person, one whose stories never get stale.

Something nags at me and tells me I might be right. Maybe it's time to break the lock. It might be weird, but I'll try. At least if this blog doesn't work, I hope I have someone to tell it to. I don't say "find" someone because I may have found him/her and not just realized it, but still.

Here's to hopefully getting my trust in the world back again.

Crisp letters on yellow pages

Books. People never really stop loving books. Fifty-first century. By now you've got holovids, direct-to-brain downloads, fiction mist. But you need the smell. The smell of books, Donna. Deep breath! 

That's from a TV show I watch about a time traveller (Hint: he's a Doctor). He was commenting on the persistence of books even in a very advanced civilization like the 51st century. And indeed, it rings true even until today. Nothing better represents the repertoire of the human experience as much as black ink sharply embossed onto white paper.

I just finished reading The Hunger Games trilogy and I should say, it was a very excellent read. The ending left on a very bittersweet note, with me undecided as to be happy or sad for the character. You see, the protagonist of the novel, 16-year-old Katniss Everdeen, is being contested with the love of two men, each of who has a significant impact in her life.

In the end, he has to choose one. And she did. But my point here is not to glorify the work of the author but to... marvel on how the written word can as easily move a person into feeling such emotions, how black ink sharply embossed onto gritty paper can evoke sympathy or hate or love or happiness.

In this age of increasingly technological advances, people getting less and less attention spans are slowly deviating from the methodical patience, the gradual build-up of a book's plot. Within its pages, we establish a link with the characters, we see what they see, and feel what they feel.

Through the written word, we do not just simply gloss our eyes over black ink sharply embossed onto crisp paper, but we become part of the story, we see their lives unfold; their lives exist in our hands as we turn the pages and learn more about them.

It's this... deep connection that we have with a book's characters that cannot be done in any other form of media. While music is medicine for the soul and movies are an escape from reality, books are the doorways to another world. Whether it be a post-apocalyptic Earth governed by a Capitol or a Time Lord who merrily skips all throughout time and space, there's no adventure more exciting than reading from black ink sharply embossed in smooth paper.

We read, then we sympathize with the characters. Then we begin to read more, as our sense of adventure is piqued, until we come to a single book that just strikes us the most. We then read it over and over, trying to absorb every little detail in this one little book that is our all-time favorite. This book which we grew fond of shapes our perception of life in some way. We realize that their stories persist and resonate in the real world, and the black ink sharply embossed onto yellow paper becomes our life's beacon.

I close Mockingjay with a faint smile on my face, and grab the next book on my shelf. Another adventure awaits, as I flip through the first chapter.

Fill in the blanks

Get this. I'm not into these blog memes where you have to do shit and spill something about yourself, but this person I know made her answers so impersonal but interesting at the same time I was encouraged to do the same. 


Here's me at an attempt for a meme: Fill in the blanks with what suits you


1. Burgers -- the best food to take on a picnic.
2. I remember the last time I watched a movie back home. It was 500 Days of Summer.  
3. I find how flip flops could mean either footwear or digital circuity computer stuff, funny. 
4. To love someone is to find someone who is so close to you that the line between "him" and "her" becomes very fine.
5. Life is a long hike and it is up to us on what route to travel.
6. When I crave food, it's usually a slab of prime rib of beef au jus marinated in red wine and served medium rare over seasonal vegetables and chicken parmesan.
7. And as for the weekend, tonight (Thursday) I'm looking forward to my parents letting the issue slide, tomorrow my plans include having a blast at the CSSS kick off party.. without busting my wallet that much, and Sunday, I want to be the bastion of academic excellence. 

Writer's block

You see, I'm a Scorpio. Just like Picasso or da Vinci, I never finish most of the work I start, just like this blog.

I once dreamt that I would be rich and famous, at least in the blogosphere. So the First Movement has begun. It was supposed to be a dramatic entrada, the first wave of a raging surge of emotions and feeling expressed and captured in free-flowing lines of prose.

But then things changed. Just like the tides, my literary excursions ebbed into the deepest confines of my mind. I was once again trapped, lost in words wanting to come out but couldn't be expressed. I always have a concept blossoming somewhere in my mind, but when I face the intimidation brought by the blinking cursor in front of me, my mind ends up at a loss for words. A loss for words! How excruciatingly forlorn!

My life's work distanced me from the thing I like most, writing. Translating my unknown thoughts into known patterns, combinations of glyphs that invoke a common definition to people who recognize it. And being the writer I am, I go as far as extending the mere common word into something more provocative, more daring, more passionate. I like using big words, the way they slush, swirl, and hang around, waiting to be used, waiting to be proof of impeccable eloquence in the language.

I keep a journal. Used to, but then people mocked me. They mocked my notebook, my ability to translate hidden thoughts into spoken words, to express the world as I perceive it, as I feel it. They don't want me to express myself, about how I see the world through my dismal, despicable eyes. I thought that was how the world works; they're satisfied living in their memory, of putting their thoughts in their mind, never getting out, never getting expressed.

I may have some things that I have to keep to myself, but my writing must not falter. I must continue to write, on and on, until all words have faded out of existence, until my mind stops, until my soul wavers. Not unless I am dead shall I stop using big words. The world is my viewpoint, and my mind is the blueprint. A blueprint to build, not a physical entity, but a personalized account of my own existence, a narrative of my being. With my mind as a blueprint and the power of words as my medium, I shall create a world, a world made entirely out of my own view, the real world as I see it through my eyes.

I am a writer, a builder of worlds, the master of linguistic expression. Forsooth, I am a writer. I have the power to distort or enhance a person's world view. I can bring forth harmonic truth or chaotic lies. I am a writer. And the world is my viewpoint.