The Angel

I've been asked on separate occasions randomly through the years what it is I'm looking for in someone.  Most of the time, typical of my silent nature, I am dumbfounded.  It seems so cliche to seek all the niceties one would want in someone.  Kind, generous, respectful, etc.  And it seems tired to say tall, dark, and handsome, a nice pair of legs, toned body, with a high-enough EQ to match his IQ.  They all seem like a checklist of an idea of a perfect partner.  Something that I've never really given much thought of.  Though it appears to me that people do have a sort of mental checklist of who they would want to be with. Consider a friend, who in fits of dateless nights, would chat me up talking about the guys he had gone out with and why none of them worked out.  Most of the time, none of them had fit with his idea of THE One.  And the ones he had been interested with were, at most, only mildly interested in him.  It becomes a matter of what's wrong with me and what

Lately, I've been thinking about it.  And maybe coming to terms about it, too.  It doesn't really matter how long you live.  What matters is how well you've lived your life.  If there are fewer wasted moments, no matter how short your life turns out to be, I guess it wouldn't be such a bad thing.  There's something tragically beautiful about that.  And maybe it's enough. What to say of a life that had gone on infinitely long, but otherwise empty and unfulfilled?  Spent with a lot of regrets and the coulda woulda shouldas. It's been first and foremost in my mind.  Maybe because the line from the play Rent  kept spinning in my head: no day but today.  Or maybe because last Monday was the 4th death anniversary of my brother.  He died in an accident; he was 16.  And maybe of other things and many things that have happened since the year started. I'm here, thinking, weighing things, sometimes bogged down by thoughts and turn of events, and I've always

The last two years were a case study of sorts.  I've never been so unsure of what I was getting into.  I stayed mostly on the sidelines, a silent observer of repartees and flirtations, wandering eyes and double takes, glances held too long.  This was the surface where noise and excesses permeated.  All sweaty in the dance floor dancing with a stranger or a friend you've recently met.  Numbers and, sometimes, salivas are easy and muted transactions under strobe lights and loud music. Why are we there? Different reasons.  Different excuses. Some could be quite upfront.  A hookup.  A date.  A serious relationship.  Others could be a little indirect.  I'm here with friends.  To dance.  Just hangout and drink.  To have fun.  The most common and vaguest of reasons.  It straddles both the clean and the naughty side. It goes on, repeatedly and repetitively, every Saturday night.  On some days you tell yourself, you're gonna stop; you're tired.  All those sweating and

I'm not new to blogging.  I've maintained blogs since college.  If I can remember correctly, I've had three blogs in this site.  And then there was a hiatus for a couple of years, towards the end of college until the first few months on my second job.  It was then that a high school friend suggested we make a blog to keep ourselves updated with each other despite not getting together often.  There was no Twitter then; Facebook was still in beta and Friendster was still the hottest networking site.  She suggested a rather obscure blog site so that it won't be block in offices.  (This site was blocked in theirs.) That was my first blog in years.  And so far the most memorable.  I've made a few friends through that blog.  But I closed it down and set it to private.  Because my parents stumbled on it.  Where's the fun in blogging if your parents know your blog, right? So I created another blog on that site.  After a couple of months, I closed it and then created