Memoirs of an Amnesiac

"Without pain, one cannot write," so quips my Literature teacher way back in college. Like children with faces beaming and reflective that of a five-year-old (who just learned that they could make shake out of kamias), we asked our teacher, "What happens when there is no pain, Miss?" She simply answered, (matter-of-factly, as if her answer equates that of the knight's incessant question where the Holy Grail was), "then, slash yourself."

There is something ...

Let's face it. Letting go sucks. It is that day when you realize that all your delusions about falling and staying in love with whom you once thought to be Mr. Right ends. What's worse, it just doesn't occur in a day. It is a journey of sorts, which either leads you wrapped with a straight jacket to the nearest mental ward or to the nearest Yoga center.

Boy meets girl, or so I thought (if this is told in the point of view of the girl, where everything else, like in the movies, becomes ...

It was probably in 1995 when internet was launched. Back then, most of us were very much acquainted with black and white screens while we struggle with Turbo Basic and Turbo Pascal. We were the baby boomers --kids born after the war, the same kids who were acquainted with Charles Babbage and got amazed with Bill Gates, even before Steve Jobs awed us with the invention of iPhone.

World wide web or (dabo-u.dabo-u.dabo-u) then made social networking sites available like hot pancakes. Messages ...

It was a sunny day (29 degrees Celcius) on December 15, 2011 at approximately 10 am when my father went to SSS (Social Security System) to pay for his quarterly contributions. It was December 15 and he just got his share of the house budget from his son and daughter. That morning he was all smiles as he carried his little bundle of joy apo in his arms while he strapped him inside the basket carriage of his bicycle -- the same one that had been with him during that day. (All of us were at work and ...

I am a self-confessed perfectionist. I guess I couldn't blame myself because I have no less been nurtured by my perfectionist father. He, having lived through a difficult life, had to endure skipping meals while yet younger and orphaned (although he still had his father but his father had his new family; his mother died of giving birth to him), had vowed to give the best for his family, no matter what the cost.

I grew up with the word STANDARD. There was always a better, if not the ...

My eyes are wide awake, lost in oblivion. At this part of my life, I don't know what else matters. Words seem to elude me, like the drops of the morning dew. Nothing else makes sense. Things I considered to be right before now don't show its verity.

Do I ever have my own place in the sun or am I a forever alien to an existence that only I knew? An outsider looking in, I will forever be.

Who am I to judge what truly matters in life? I'm a spider trapped in my own web, ...

One of the reasons why people get so sentimental is because memories are the only things that don't change. When everything else does, there are things in life that you can't hold on forever, no matter how much you fight for them.

Sometimes destiny isn't always good; it becomes playful. When you meet someone, you learn to love. You thought that it was destiny which made your paths cross. But what if making your paths cross is just a part of the game that the playful destiny creates, ...