Of cigarettes and coffee

10th. Counting sticks of sin that was too hard to resist. I promised myself I would stop. But every blow feels like travelling around places I’ve never been. It’s an adventure, an escape, a temporary peace. My sweaty hands are trembling as I speak. Left hand on the cigs, right one on the keyboard. My second coffee for the day’s sitting on my desk. Multi-tasking to balance the chaos in my mind. Too much lines and circles in it, too many shades of colors I’m finding it so challenging to pick. Sometimes I ask myself, why do I keep doing the bad things? And how come the bad makes me feel good? Have you ever felt that too?

I wonder.

Maybe it’s all in my head. No caffeine or nicotine should be blamed. It’s all inside me. Or maybe it’s in all of us. Isn’t it? The urge to starve for pleasure, to seek for comfort, to learn how to completely embrace yourself and to look for peace within you. The questions that were scattered all over you that haunt you every night. And the answers you’re too eager to grasp but are nowhere to find.

And it terrifies you. The fights and the loss. And the undying hunger to win and soar. Hence you settle for the numbness that cigarettes and coffee provide, to stop you from overthinking and to make yourself happy.. even for a short while.

Took the last sip. That final drop of the black coffee that was no longer hot. Black, I prefer it black. The darkness of it seems to give light to every nerve in me that was sleeping. That’s what I like about my coffee––it renews me. It renews me as it disturb the regularity of the beats of my heart. It’s bad for me, I know. But what can I do? If I enjoy savouring the bad by seeing the goodness of it, should I stop? 

I wonder. Maybe, just maybe… it’s all in my head. 



Note: Title was inspired by a story called Of Hornets and Butterflies written by one of the greatest writers I look up to in WordPress. Thanks for the inspiration, Hyperion 🙂

The meaning of it all

She closed her eyes to feel the warmth of the words that were too excited to escape. Words that have been jailed for quite a while, words that she kept to herself they ended up battling too much in her head. Ironic as it may seem, no matter how much she wanted to get turned on by the sensuality that writing usually gives her, she refused the treat—for she thought she didn’t deserve it.

“It’s not about “deserve”, it’s about what you believe.” -Wonder Woman

And despite of it all, all the mess and the war, she still believes in the power of love. Love that she puts in every work she does, no matter how many times she had failed herself or even others. She loved every splash of ink, every bit of ideas, every little sense of magic, every foolish mistakes, and everything that helps her create.

And that’s the point being.

You love it so much sometimes it hurts.Due to the unavoidable expectations that punch you in the face and the ineluctable, poisonous presence of fear that chokes you until your out of breath. You love it so much you want only the best. Not realizing that the more you love it, the more it’s tougher to get. That the best is yet to come, only if you strive to be better first.

And it’s okay. To struggle, to lose sight of direction and momentum. To sometimes experience a tremendous imbalance of emotions. It happens. For when you chose to take the road less travelled, you have to understand it’s much harder than the rest, that you will cry more often and it’s triple the pain. Many times you’ll be wounded, you will fall, you will be deceived—that’s because you do what you love and that you love what you do. You may rest from time to time but never throw away what you believe in. If you believe in love, keep it with you all the time and go back to it each time you get confused by the decisions you’ve got to make. Love always finds a way, always.

And it’s when you start to indulge the wild taste of darkness that you appreciate the brightness of the rainbow that’s meant for you. So don’t stop and take it all in. The meaning of it all can only be found by you.


Photo credit: Pinterest

“Have courage and be kind, Darling..”


My mother used to tell me this when I was little. Back then I couldn’t really fathom its depth, neither what it meant to me, nor how it would have an impact in my life. Until a surprising event altered our lives—and my life as an only child.

Let me tell you a short story. A story of my life.

My mother was a chain-smoker and a frustrated writer. She didn’t get to publish her creations, but to me she was the best writer in the world. She has written countless fiction stories that she would read to me during bed time. She’s so creative, her imagination is limitless. She told me I was her inspiration, that most of the qualities of the protagonists in her stories are the ones she hoped I would have one day when I grew up. Sadly, I didn’t get any of them. I grew up disappointing her for being the girl who did not possess such character of a princess of strength. I just couldn’t be who she wanted me to be. I tried, but I failed. Expectations unmet, promises undelivered. I promised her I will continue what she has unfinished. That I will write stories that will change the world. But I couldn’t, I just couldn’t do it.

She would usually say, “Write a novel and put your heart in it. A fiction with words that would speak of love and inspiration.” Not the exact same words and tone of voice because for sure, she would have said it better. She’s my idol, but I despise the idea that she smokes two pack of cigarettes a day. She said that it helps her become more creative, hence I wasn’t able to do anything to stop her.

Unfortunately, it has taken its heavy toll on her.

Fast forward to today, my mother couldn’t even remember me. She has Stage 4 breast cancer and dementia, as per the doctors, which they said has nothing to do with her smoking that much cigs. How come? And why her? Every single day from the time we found out she was very sick, I have anticipated the nightmare of losing her and being alone. I’m scared, really scared. Nevertheless, I’m happy that she’s still with me, that I could take care of her, even though my Idol in her was now gone.

She would usually call me Ella or Mina, some of the girls from her stories. And then last night, I came home and saw her lying in her bed, staring blankly out of nowhere. I took advantage of that moment to study her, to remember all the memories we have shared when she was still sane. I felt that pinch in my heart, like a stab in the chest, but no blood came out. I then wished my mum comes back, even just for a short while, I murmured.

And even before the tears run down, she looked at me as if she’s calling me to come right beside her. So I did. I held her hand and closed my eyes as I rub them in my cheeks. My way of telling her how much I miss her and her bedtime stories. And when her left hand brushed my hair, I could no longer hold the tears from falling. They fell hastily like a bird who needs freedom. I freed all the tears my eyes could release. And she spoke to me the words she would always tell me when I was young:

“Have courage and be kind, Darling..” she wiped my tears and smiled after saying those words. My wish was granted. My mother’s sanity was back, she’s back and she remembered me!

Ah, really? Guess not…

“Ella, call your father and tell him the dinner is ready!”, she said in peremptory fashion, just like how Ella’s mother in her stories would do. I just sighed in utter frustration. Subsequently, she kept on coughing non-stop, I quickly prepared a glass of water and searched for her meds—there I saw a bunch of them scattered in her drawers. My mother has been cheating, she hasn’t been taking her meds all this time. Guess she really wants to leave, to leave me, and she left me with such words that used to be blurry.

That same night, she closed her eyes, so peacefully I could almost see an angel giving her wings so she could fly.

And now that I’m alone, I get it. To have courage and to be kind would probably be the only thing I could instil in me, and this time, I won’t disappoint her.

I promise, Momma, I will have courage and be kind. Always. 



(This story was inspired by the Cinderella movie I just watched an hour ago through Fox Movies Channel. The title was mentioned several times it got stuck in my head I had to write it down this way. Thanks for reading!)

Image source: Pinterest

When the sad girl writes..

“She likes the calming sound of the nib against the flawless surface of the sheet.

She likes it because somehow, through this, she’s at an interim peace.

Letting it all out as her words make love to each other to form an offspring—words that came from the innermost cuts of pain; and of profound sorrow and unknown faces of fear.

She’s sad, always has been.

A sad girl who writes effortlessly, because words naturally come out, stuffed with sincerity.

She’s not happy—a fact she’s not afraid to admit.. but when the sad girl writes, everybody nods and acquiesces.. that it’s a masterpiece.”


Disclaimer: I’m not the sad girl I’m talking about in this piece. Lol 😝 just trying to be poetic here.. ♥️

Battle of the Psychos


“This is what you want, ain’t it? F*ck me then fool me and then make me fall for you? Now if this is a game for you, let me play it real good with you. In this game, you be my Queen—but there’s no way I’ll be giving you to another King. No way out, no escape. Do you understand!?” threatened Ben, while he unzip his pants, still putting all his weight at her back.

Ash couldn’t move, she could feel the heat from his breath that made her face sweat even more, while she’s painfully pressed at the back of the door, disgraced and motionless. She tried to protest and escape from this nightmare, but the thoughts of her troubled past enfeebled her bones.

Ben had successfully and forcefully owned her from behind which has put Ash into a mental numbness. Ben kept on talking whilst he do her, but none of them meant to her. It’s been a while since the last time she felt something. At this very moment, she’s mentally numb but emotionally disturbed. Her past is now haunting her in every corner of her mind. Her brokenness has reached a level of total damage, all pieces have multiplied into micro mini versions of it that even time might not be enough to put them all back to its wholeness again.

Once he’s done, he vigorously flipped her body from her waist so he could look into her eyes. He held her face with both his hands, kept on telling her to “say something!”, but he heard no response from her.

All of a sudden, tears rolled down her face. Stunned, Ben stepped back and stood there staring at her like a statue. After a couple of minutes, he started apologising, like a person with bipolar disorder whose state instantly changes, back to being the nice guy that he was.

What is this guy, really?

Not a question of who, but a question of his true being. What is his true nature? Who’s the real Ben and when is he saying the truth? I couldn’t fathom his real identity…

Ah, I knew it! He’s a psycho! A real one and maybe, a dangerous kind. My tears aren’t worth falling for this a-hole! Ash thought whilst she wipes her tears off her face.

“I need to leave. Please let me go.” she begged, trying to hypnotise him with her fake puppy eyes to minimise the trouble, hoping that this guy would let her go. But this man’s level of obsession couldn’t be broken the soft way.

“No, you can’t leave. You’re my property now, don’t you understand?”

Crap. Then let me do it the hard way.

Back to her senses, she landed her fist to his nose as quick and as hard as she could. Ben lost his balance and fell onto the floor. He then touched his nose and saw the palm of his hands filled with his thick form of blood—it momentarily paralysed him until he realised that Ash has already ran away to escape.


This is a continuation from my Psychoweirdo series. Jump in and let me know your thoughts below 😉

The little boy

The day passed by in a snap, gone instantly like a bubble, I was too oblivious to the breeze of time. I looked up at Mr. Clock, hanging at my pure white wall, saying it’s now 15 mins past 10 in the evening and I forgot to have dinner! I’m on a lean diet though so I shrugged but then I realized I haven’t had lunch too, occupied with work and the book I was reading. Wearing my sweat pants and comfy white shirt (my favorite), I grabbed my car keys in a haste to go on a drive thru in McDonald’s for some nuggets and fries. Oh well, shit day! I mean, cheat day!

Then this happened:

I was driving at 60, traffic is not too bad, when a shirtless little boy with a belly that is somewhat bigger than his head, probably around 4 or 5 years old, I couldn’t really ascertain, suddenly crossed the road I have nearly killled him! Thank God for my quick reflex and clear eye sight I have rapidly pressed the brake and that saved me from being a criminal. My adrenaline levels are so high I was so sure of it but at that very moment, I freezed and almost forgot to blink—I didn’t know what to do. My hands became sweaty, glued to the steering wheel, never want to let go. But i had to let go and get out. As soon as I did, I saw the little boy’s parents; his mother was scolding him while he shrieks, and his father, apologising to me.

“Is he alright?” The only three words my mouth could release.

“Yes, Ma’am.” The father replied.

I was shocked with what happened, like who wouldn’t? My body turned a little numb due to some thoughts appearing in my head: a boy that’s hurt, seeing him covered with blood and most probably… lifeless. Thoughts that have made me feel like I have stolen his chance to see the beauty of life, that feeling that I have taken away a life of an innocent being. Almost. But I didn’t. So I went back to my senses and talked to them. The father said they live under the bridge, just across the road where I almost hit his 8th child. They have nine children and they’re expecting the 10th, his wife due in three months. This is not like something new to my ears and my eyes (because homeless large families are common in the Philippines) but there was a deep pinch in my heart that came maybe from the sincerity of his voice as he speaks, and the laugh and giggles from the rest of the kids, enjoying themselves—despite the fact that they haven’t eaten, like I. But unlike me, they don’t have enough to buy for what they need. Hence I brought them to Mcdonalds a few meters from the road where we talked and gave the father a 500 peso bill before we parted ways. It felt right, although I know it wasn’t right—giving a man a fish instead of teaching him how to fish, ain’t that how the saying goes? But how can you lecture someone to work hard if he can’t even read or write, and is only limited to special skills of making tons of babies? Sigh. I wish it’s not like this but this is a freakin’ face of reality.

A few nights later, when I was driving again on the same road, I saw a red sedan, surrounded by a handful of people, a few feet away from the spot where I almost hit the little boy. I pulled over to check what’s going on and there I found the same family I encountered last night, looking naive and innocent, and the “almost victim” this time was their 7th child, a couple of years older than the one who performed the same act the other night.



(Photo courtesy of Google)