"Human beings are most inclined
to love the things
that hurt them the most
not because we are masochists by birth,
we are taught from a young age
that true love is going to, is supposed to, hurt you in ways
you cannot fathom"
Lorinda Ament, Masochism is a Learned Trait
In the middle of working on something, while your head is filled with things unrelated to what you’re supposed to be focusing on, you cloud your head with things. And you suddenly spout with the words and the urge to write.
Funny how lies and lice are similar metaphorically, when forced, and with how it sounds like.
And so this I write while I was working on my Illustrator project.
We meet again.
From the moment I tasted you, you have become the most precious morsel of chewy, nutty goodness that I would most likely marry if you were human.
You encase yourself in the protection of the most basic ingredient. You are, inside, exotic with taste and color yet so simple and classy with your composition.
You are my opium that I cannot own; my vice that I cannot sustain for you have only come a short while. A visitor. A passerby.
If the day would come for you to finally disappear, and you will, quickly, you will never be forgotten.
I’ll have more of you soon, or later, but not never.
I’ll stuff my face with your chewy-nutty goodness again, with remnants of you powdering the rim of my mouth, careless and engrossed in your flavour.
Ah! Aghast! Aghast will I be when you are gone. And it would be my fault!
Aching. Aching! Knowing that you are near me now while writing this. I’ve consumed my supply of you for the day being. Ah! Aghast!
I shall be with you tomorrow my dainty, dear Gaz.
This photo defines “Morning Exercise”
Exercising in my pajamas has got to be one of my quirks and forgiveable fashion faux pas.
It is a blunder to the world of fashion where aesthetics is divine; and an acceptable outfit in the world of fitness, where sweating is prime.
#cake chocilate cheeneebautista
September 4, 2014. 9:56 p.m.
Box of cake was seen [with the cake still intact] in the fridge situated on the second layer, beside the yogurt and the nearly spoilt stir-fry vegetable.
September 5, 2014. 8:49 a.m.
Box of cake was last seen on the same place as where it was the previous night, with cake still intact. Officer’s note: The bag of cooked rice was nowhere to be found.
September 6, 2014. 3:14 a.m.
The box of cake was found inside a garbage bin in the master’s bedroom with innards (cake) removed and eaten by a person. No witnesses. No reports. No evidences except for the mangled box sprawled inside the bin.
September 6, 2014. 3:15 a.m.
Detective discovers the culprit: Her own sister.
Verdict: Felony and Cake Murder
Sentence: No cake for a week
OOH! I think I had something similar to this. I sortof know the feeling on how it’s supposed to taste like. Mmmmm. Lychee flavor, please!
I like how the colors are matched with the Philippines flag.
Also the fisted 100D. :D
Not my work by the way.
A Dream of Sight and Sound in Tungsten
I was in a dark house, on the second floor. People were asleep with doors open. The darkness didn’t scare me at all because it was balanced out by how serene the people were sleeping. I had to take a photo of it. Feeling my way through each room to look for a camera, someone tapped me from behind. I glared at the person, a lady, who was trying to hand me something with one hand. The lady was my Theology teacher in highschool. She was handing me a camera. I reached out for it, then she took the camera’s cap off and placed it on my ear. Surprised, I heard music from the cap that was attached on my left ear. My eyes looked dazzled as I spew an awe of delight towards her direction, “Oahhhhhh..!”. The cap doubled as an mp3 player. Amazing, I thought. She returned back to her room, backing away as she glanced once to smile at my amused face.
Now, I can shoot. I looked through my lens and I see a tungsten white balance view. It was it’s default setting. Everything was in tungsten.
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:
where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep. ”
“Don’t go far off, not even for a day,
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?”