tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55457128311790599182024-02-07T02:43:36.055-08:00BisyosoJoel CJ Senico Abahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07390097411789856410noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5545712831179059918.post-87006368456096983352010-09-16T23:13:00.000-07:002010-09-17T17:18:08.068-07:00Only Begotten Son<span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-family:georgia;" >ONLY BEGOTTEN SON</span><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">A Short Story</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">By Joel Aba</span> <img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 367px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 184px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4120/4851005579_d1c4a0aefd_z.jpg" border="0" /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:georgia;" >The sun is brightly up but though the night is over, continually, he believed, it still is…</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Something inside Dindo urged him to do this every day – seated alone in a small bench under a small tree, in a dark brown, wooden table with bottles of beverages around. It was late afternoon. Just breathing the air crushes his heart while he seated consciously. He looked up on the leaves of the coconut tree – the resilience of it and the movement similar to the ricefields pierced him inside. The sway of leaves caused by cold and turbulent afternoon air drew a line of tear from his eyes. Now Dindo drinks the last bottle on his table.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The market place near him is a place fed with laughter, deafening horns of buses, dirty talks and chitchats. Gossips are all around, and Dindo, having infamously known for his life’s story, has no escape.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">“That guy is into so much disgrace!” he heared from a corner.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">“He’s cursed,” he heared another unfamiliar voice from that corner.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">He shifted his eyes to them, yet he can see nothing but blur, and black shadows covered their image. Dindo tried to extend his legs and fight, yet his legs are weaker to even stand up. He leaned his arms on the table and bowed his head down. Now, Dindo dozed off.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The marketplace in Sitio Guetra is a place where Dindo finishes 8 bottles a day. 8 bottles are enough to doze him off and momentarily be relieved from an earthly hell. Alcohol is Dindo’s only resort to ease his burden.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">But something urged him to do this every day. A not-so-distant past urged him to continually infuse his body with the devilish spirit of alcohol in his resolve to forgetting what he has done, and to somehow burn the reminiscences of what fate did to his seemingly ill-fated life.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Now, Dindo’s life is a continual struggle of forgetting and burning memories – memories of people and places.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;" >----<br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Love of Two/Vail of Tears</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Feet walked fast. The movement is brisk and every step showed strength – like that of a man whose only work is to labor day and night. His feet showed precision as he trailed the mud to his small home. The ground showed footprints as he walked briskly alongside the ricefields where his home is seen from afar – in that scenic beauty atop a hill where the sun feeds light in the dimming afternoon.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">He knew that today will be, again, a day of celebration. Dindo will see the woman of his life, Sheena, the pretty Ilocana woman with red lips, bashful eyes, and sweet smile. Her moves caressed every man’s dream, and Dindo, being the most masculine among her suitors before, achieved a sure win.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Dindo’s ecstatic feelings over her grew more and more in their 1st year together. However, heaven did not bless them a child – sadness that though engulfed Dindo and Sheena, they have accepted wholeheartedly. Both knew partnership can still be built despite Dindo’s incapability.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Every day is love. Dindo, will arrive home from all the day’s work in the ricefields. With his dirty hands from work, Dindo peers in a hole in the kitchen and suddenly surprises her with a hug from her back... every single day. Such monotony did not bore the couples for more than 365 days from their marriage.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">But today seemed different.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Dindo placed his vintage bicycle that his father gave him under the shed of the small tree right beside their house. He slowly walked through the kitchen where he’d usually peer and surprise his wife. He waited for two minutes, yet, his wife did not show up. He gently opened the door and looked around the house. There was something different. He knew there was something wrong.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Dindo hurriedly moved the cloth that covered their small kitchen and there, he saw Sheena, lied down on a mat in the floor, seemingly lifeless.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Dindo knew the tragedy of his wife.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">In the hospital’s alley, the doctor faced Dindo and tapped him in his arms. Dindo’s hands shook and his breath were deep. His hands held grip the corner of the chair where he was seated. He was voiceless yet fiery. Fierceness is within him and suddenly with his fierce façade, tears flew from his eyes. It was as if heaven clashed with the seas for Dindo. There he knew, from the words of the doctor, that his wife was carelessly raped.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;" >---- </div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" face="georgia"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">The Blood of the Fields</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">It seemingly took no minute until Dindo came home. In his very eyes were revenge and all he needed was to see the person who threatened yet scathed he and his wife’s lives. His face reflected his rage. Again, he trailed the ricefields, more hurriedly this time. His heart beated faster as he walked looking for the man. His feet even slipped into the mud of the ricefield, but he never cared. His body seemed to numb and everything seemed oblivious to him at the moment.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Dindo slipped his right feet again, as he trailed the pathway of the fields.<br /><br />There, for a moment, a special memory of his life took the scene. Reminiscent flashbacks came to his vision- the site, the fields, the dimming afternoon. He remembered his childhood days – the days he slipped his foot to the mud of the fields. He remembered how he struggled to get his feet off the mud covering all his feet when he was 8 years old. He remembered himself cry, and at that moment, he can feel the tears of a child in him. And there, he remembered his gracious father who held him on both hands.<br /><br />He remembered how his father taught him to watch his steps. He then remembered the good old memories were his father had to trail with him at that exact place, and everytime he slips his foot from the pathway, his father would rescue every time.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Despite pain, he shifted focus from the luster of his memories to his revenge.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Now the moment is set, he saw the man walked down the hills down to the ricefields that afternoon. The man walked fast with his luggage hurriedly yet carefully evacuating their place. But the moment froze for him when he saw Dindo from afar, looking straight to his eyes. It was dimming all over the place, but his mind and eyes see only the person he cursed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Both their shadows met. Dindo ran towards him, but the man only stood helplessly as he saw Dindo running fast towards him. He must have prepared his self for this time – the time of the utmost revenge. He opened his arms, succumbing to his fate – yielding to his death.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Now that Dindo came near, all his fears and fury were mixed up, and a powerful stab greeted the man on his chest. The man laid helpless in the ricefields. Mud and blood met. The mud covered half of his body. The surroundings - the ricefield - are now in darkness as darkness stole his life.<br /><br />For his last revenge, Dindo placed a sharp stab again to his neck. His hands were cold, while his sweat and tears met together.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Dindo never knew exactly - in his present conciousness - what he had done. Never knew what exactly happened. Dindo took his drastic revenge. And the man finally laid to rest and now buried with his blood to the ground.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="FONT-FAMILY: georgia; TEXT-ALIGN: center">----<br /></div><div style="FONT-FAMILY: georgia; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">When Fate Sets</span><br /><br /></div><span style="font-family:georgia;">Dindo paid the price. On the 12th month, Dindo was temporarily freed after being bailed.</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><br />He tried to live his life just as he wants to. He goes to Sitio Guerta, a kilometer away from their village to drink and unwind. He finished 8 bottles a day, and burns memories on that dusty and noisy marketplace. People shoo him off, degrades him. Yet he never cared.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The tragedy and the pain of living with reality is something that urged Dindo to do this every day. He seats alone in a small bench under a small tree, in a dark brown, wooden table and finished it through falling asleep.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">But both partners still built another house on a hill, near a ricefield. There, after sleeping in a few hours, he saw Sheena sleeping, with an infant in her arms. He spotted the child first and he smiled to them. Tears flew from his eyes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">He walked slowly… slowly to her bed. The streaks of light from the window pointed them that bright afternoon. The lightness that engulfed the room also made him felt light inside. It was a day of change and forgiveness. There, he held the baby from the arms of her wife as if the life of the child was his. He looked into his eyes, and the image of a baby’s smile greeted him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">It felt lighter for him. He knew there is a connection that builds him and her wife’s son. He looked at the child, and smiled. He has never been happy before. He kissed the child and held him tight.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">After all of these, he promised to love the child as if it were his. The child may not be her son, but the child was of his once-loved father. Seeing the sun, he remembers him and felt the pain of losing a father who rescued him in the ricefield.<br /><br />From then on, promised to love his brother as his only begotten son.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="FONT-STYLE: italic; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="font-family:georgia;">-END-</span> </div><br /><div style="FONT-STYLE: italic; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><?xml:namespace prefix = fb /><fb:comments></fb:comments></div>Joel CJ Senico Abahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07390097411789856410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5545712831179059918.post-32579219548582374962009-11-19T00:02:00.000-08:002010-09-16T23:09:24.730-07:00Fragranced Past<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUDQ8d_Rn2iNXHTZKZEsNsUdqhjYiPyFXIQoK_f6JYiCtTIP_JFhvwvsSZekSFrVnNtCZ6jQUydks6Jqrd_KWkIBhqPRdK6XVL0VwnE8ulVnPhF-6LdIwpafNpylDnKCCRR0W7gxHf2JI/s1600-h/hands.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 244px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUDQ8d_Rn2iNXHTZKZEsNsUdqhjYiPyFXIQoK_f6JYiCtTIP_JFhvwvsSZekSFrVnNtCZ6jQUydks6Jqrd_KWkIBhqPRdK6XVL0VwnE8ulVnPhF-6LdIwpafNpylDnKCCRR0W7gxHf2JI/s320/hands.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416017121280711106" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" >Fragranced Past</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">By Joel S. Aba</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Has there a way out from your fragrance,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I would rush out and go</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Where there’s a chance to meet</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">A celebration of the unending serenity</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Out there, I would hope</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">For forever, eternal riddance</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">From the intoxicating fragrance</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Where life breathes no longer,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Away from a piercing scent of past</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Against hope I would hope</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">This soon will fade</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">In the dimmest of the dimmest</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">That fragrance I smell will spur no memory</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Of that seeming everlasting love</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">A love that’s trampled in Hades</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">A love that I would hope eternally</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">That in the recesses of the soul</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">like the harvested fields,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">the descending tone of songs,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">the burnt books,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">the death of mosquitoes,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">the amnesia of a mind,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">the spoken words,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">the deflowered and dying ones,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">like the parting of seas in Testaments</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">it would end, part, torn, everlastingly</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Mourning should come to end</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">right now</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Senses should identify no more</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">reminding me of that delicate scent</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">pointing a gun to my heart</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">where trigger may pull down and cause my death</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">In this gripping memory of you</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Oh, keep me away from the fragrance</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">That even when you ain’t seen it’s still near</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Nearer and nearer yet I dread,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">like troubling waters</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">like the crash of winds</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">to the bending of bamboos that stays resilient</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">By time… I stand, breathing</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">For today, I would close the lids of mine eyes</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">yet still breathe</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Hoping that when lids open again</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">in the light of day,</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I dwell no more</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">in that only remembrance of you</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">And free you, my fragranced past.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Copyright, The NORSUnian's Handurawan 2009</span></div><br /><br /><fb:comments></fb:comments>Joel CJ Senico Abahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07390097411789856410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5545712831179059918.post-50748685595224107262009-10-08T02:11:00.000-07:002009-12-17T17:56:15.152-08:00Winds of Solitude<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLdCIp1ZxUICBlv5o2duQIQmhjQnS3U8PIMvoUhHb8tbEdKovaaYD90xLIOAhTx2cQ_ue25Kdw59Pf_Stxqs9A-RYaru2kIMhxtaVCvgr-DlNV0D0gJMBuU049ZlTf1SESojCbriaHdkg/s1600-h/boy-hands.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 255px; height: 203px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLdCIp1ZxUICBlv5o2duQIQmhjQnS3U8PIMvoUhHb8tbEdKovaaYD90xLIOAhTx2cQ_ue25Kdw59Pf_Stxqs9A-RYaru2kIMhxtaVCvgr-DlNV0D0gJMBuU049ZlTf1SESojCbriaHdkg/s320/boy-hands.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5416018012113182786" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Winds of Solitude</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">By Joel S. Aba</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I chased the winds that follow you</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">clinging to the ends of every strand</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">that dashed toward the still waters of the East</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">moving briskly towards an unknown end</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I chased the winds that follow you</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">It moved through pristine forests and seas</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">And in ominous roads, tunnels, and cliffs</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">It turned me bruised as I clung</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I chased the winds that follow you</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The sun fed my unquenched spirit to follow</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">In turbulence I clinched in both hands</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Pushing against the devastating force of the rage</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I chased tightly to the winds that follow you</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">My life moved against the inevitable</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">My tears flew swift behind the shadows</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">That even the shadows constantly wished to set free</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">A louder call of the East reverberating</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Have caused the wind to move swiftly and go</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I tried to chase the last strand of the winds that follow you</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Yet the strand of the wind has gone out of sight</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The pasture of change cushioned the fall</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The sun was up, yet I see nothing but darkness</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Solitude wrapped the inside of my bashed spirit</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">And the brokenness left me nothing but empty</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">In this cruel fate I stood bold from the fall</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Like how the horizon brings the sun back to life</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">And in stride I walk back to my lost, true self</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Back to the self where I truly belong.</span></div>Joel CJ Senico Abahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07390097411789856410noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5545712831179059918.post-4907850033689319302009-04-23T04:33:00.000-07:002009-04-23T04:35:29.632-07:00The Worth of A BattleIf there's ONE THING i want to change instantly other than to let somebody come back to me, would be to cut off my OJT, and transfer to another site with this reason: While on my way up to the seemingly insurmountable boondocks of Valenica, the nature - everything around me cuts within, seems to splice my heart into pieces as some reminiscences flood down my brain stems. I've cried my heart out. AGAIN, and again, and again.<br /><br />Well, work hours at Energy Development Corporation could be easily described in two words - drifting, dragging. We didn't have enough work to combat drowsiness, with the chill from cold air conditioner, switched to the lowest temperature - just as cold as how she feels for me.<br /><br />This is indeed a mellow drama. My dramatically excruciating battle to win somebody back again also seemed to me as a war of my thoughts versus my heart. It was the most not-as-easy-as-it-sounds heartbreak in my life, that literally ceased my world's turn. My life stopped and i felt the need of picking up my broken self on the floor. The pain of picking my broken self down made me believe that I've expected and invested emotions toward one person all that much.<br /><br />After days of battle, emotional oppression and debacle, i ceased the long fight. I laid my cards down, i threw the ball off the court, I stopped running the race in the oval, I smashed the dice, I laid the joystick down - i QUIT and shut the game off.<br /><br />Just like a real-life battle, losing it was not easy. I was scathed and felt abandoned - my life brought me back to the hell i once was.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrmuFdt8JLOMGAsZ8qPshobNM44dxHBmuygNNMtI8fQ_TNRtK6hJYnGrSdm0Vp3IOagDz28jlB2PnN8WpVgwlCzAytA9pz27a9whhmc92d_orLolWI-6P0ua_OmeuyUQB4xealysvdtxs/s1600-h/15f1d545b98ad35e.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 194px; height: 152px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrmuFdt8JLOMGAsZ8qPshobNM44dxHBmuygNNMtI8fQ_TNRtK6hJYnGrSdm0Vp3IOagDz28jlB2PnN8WpVgwlCzAytA9pz27a9whhmc92d_orLolWI-6P0ua_OmeuyUQB4xealysvdtxs/s320/15f1d545b98ad35e.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327848943538448658" border="0" /></a><br />My life went on, on a different pace. I was treading on a new, changed, and different life. I still wake up early to wait for the company bus to fetch me, and like as it always was, i have no enough work to do.Finally, I bumped on a chapter of my my two-year old book entitled, "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff" in an unintentional and unplanned reason.<br /><br />The chapter entitled, "CHOOSE YOUR BATTLES WISELY" built up my life quickly back again, that i finished reading the 100-chapter book for only two days. I read the lines, LIFE is filled with opportunities to choose between making a deal out of something or letting it go, realizing it doesn't really matter."<br /><br />Lines like "Ask yourself the QUESTION, 'Will this Matter a Year from Now?'" opened my eyes into the realization I never expected myself to value so much. I realized that if I don't want to "sweat the small stuff," its critical for me to choose my battles wisely. If I do, there will come a day that I'll rarely feel the need to do the battle at all.<br /><br />After everything, i closed the book on its 100th chapter and realized how much wasted effort I've invested but lost... BUT THEN, "the battle, indeed, was not worth fighting for."Joel CJ Senico Abahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07390097411789856410noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5545712831179059918.post-68075363323076834642009-02-04T18:18:00.000-08:002009-02-04T22:47:03.984-08:00Straight or not Straight?<span>Below are two</span><span> pictures. The first one was taken sometime 15 years ago. The second one was taken December 2008. Don’t be duped! The first picture isn't me. It’s my brother <span style="font-weight: bold;">Germano Aba</span>, now 30 something, working and living apart from our family for about 11 years now. He is probably the only person in the world who has the closest facial profile with mine (except Joe Jonas, of course) that even my neighbors and grandparents often makes me a misnomer. Worse, even my parents erroneously call me with his name in some of our conversations</span><span>.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidtN5wSxuXm6Y-rMHk1BWYZ07u6kmns20eEEZq_schM2cw4umlrkEtL0K7Fc-OpaevowM85iSQDmzBdnRKe53rE96suhdYVNhuDDVmhwwH2xzUhyLplu3ANGj4KapCqUoNGq8TkpwL6kc/s1600-h/xmashin+244.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 194px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidtN5wSxuXm6Y-rMHk1BWYZ07u6kmns20eEEZq_schM2cw4umlrkEtL0K7Fc-OpaevowM85iSQDmzBdnRKe53rE96suhdYVNhuDDVmhwwH2xzUhyLplu3ANGj4KapCqUoNGq8TkpwL6kc/s320/xmashin+244.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299136736094237026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">(BEFORE AND AFTER?</span> 1980's vs. 2008 - two decades now, and I'm still young. hehe..)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHtYoB_ySIyJ-kkADgYIZPjckh2tJzIxo92Ccv1ER9UGLfWPB8VfEP7dqRlM8s9eAFYsn3QCUxkmVZaB9sPvf4sd0SOEvbcfvhWWuZ6uSPVIMuC7qfo_1QJulV6cIoxwBV96W50O6KRJg/s1600-h/gdd.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 159px; height: 172px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHtYoB_ySIyJ-kkADgYIZPjckh2tJzIxo92Ccv1ER9UGLfWPB8VfEP7dqRlM8s9eAFYsn3QCUxkmVZaB9sPvf4sd0SOEvbcfvhWWuZ6uSPVIMuC7qfo_1QJulV6cIoxwBV96W50O6KRJg/s320/gdd.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299139291608480466" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span>But this doesn’t drag me u</span><span>p to my insecurity even when my parents, sisters and relatives often tells me that "Manong" was more handsome than I do. lol. I love my being me, even if there’s some</span><span>one who apparently looks like me 15 </span><span>years ago! =)<br /><br />But just so you k</span><span>now, he’s 5’9 in height, Silliman University CBA cheerdancer in the 80’s, FU Cheerdancer of the same decade, host and public speaker,</span><span> vain, hot guy (according to cousins), barkadista, cream-of-the-crop – and yes, Gay (No, not the cross-dresser guys, just the so-called “discreet”).</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhFZpo8HOBN0Gyfbpvr-lt7z0bwgRwBEr0Vy2twcuIvWn53ZLurgnbmY5EyFtKXvLmrCM3iZrGzY9Cb1b0rGke9GoBhaBjmTzs3xx34hKBsandkM-6DxGlIHL-NFHInY0-udupZV4lLU/s1600-h/1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhFZpo8HOBN0Gyfbpvr-lt7z0bwgRwBEr0Vy2twcuIvWn53ZLurgnbmY5EyFtKXvLmrCM3iZrGzY9Cb1b0rGke9GoBhaBjmTzs3xx34hKBsandkM-6DxGlIHL-NFHInY0-udupZV4lLU/s320/1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299137662942345394" border="0" /></a><br /><span>As a matter of fact, he’s living with somebody. Together, for almost 10 years now, they both own a small business with a computer station in Manila – and happy. My brother goes to his work in Quezon City, while Ike, his partner, takes charge of the business at home.<br /></span><span><br />You may ask, why am I getting these issues out about someone who has caused degradation and shame to my family?<br /></span><br /><span>This is actually my first blog that talks about homosexuality… and this seems so interesting. Well, months ago, I was tasked by the publication to write a column on gender issues and sexuality. While typing down my thoughts, it flamed my concern with how homosexuals these days are insulted, and emotionally abused by people who have less understanding of their kind, and who have less concern for their cause. Scribbling information, I couldn’t think less than my brother who has now recovered out from the discrimination of other people during his college. He even had girlfriends then, jived with tough guys, had musculinity all over, etc... etc... But as for his experience, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">suppression of what is innate in one’s sexuality only causes more confusion and frustration. </span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>That time, my brother chose happiness rather than the torment of living with somebody, and facing the consequences of a suppressed life.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><blockquote>Now, his story also reminded me that not all men who look very straight, not all men who jive with men’s bandwagon are straight guys, as the magazine says, <span style="font-style: italic;">“Straight man is the new gay."</span></blockquote></span><br />There are even a lot of them, whom I secretly know anyway, still does the same thing with what my brother did – jiving with guys as much as they could to cover too soon what has become, well, in many instances, an obvious and dubious act. These gays have not gone out of public rather, suppressing themselves in the boundaries of being man.<br /><br />I am not discriminating those who try to be unnatural to cause others to think the other way. The fact that these kinds are also discriminating those who get “out” or the “confessed discreet gays,” makes me and some people raise eyebrows. Worst, they never know that people are already talking behind them.<br /><br />To combat these, those people should know the rule of living a life: <span style="font-style: italic;">Be who you are. </span>My brother never have had to be "womanized"<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>to live a life he wished to.<span style="font-style: italic;"> Let it out, but live a life accordingly. With that, just like my brother, you will get the apt respect you needed.</span></span>Joel CJ Senico Abahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07390097411789856410noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5545712831179059918.post-31928643590615981372008-12-15T22:16:00.000-08:002008-12-17T00:43:00.212-08:00Vegetarianism and Animals<span style="font-weight: bold;">I bumped into this hilarious picture which is said to be posted as cover of a magazine sometime ago. <span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">It has the caption, “IF YOU DON’T BUY THIS MAGAZINE, WE'LL KILL THIS DOG!”</span></span><br /><br />I guess its only a lampoon issue of the magazine, as written, so I was quite relieved that it was really not intended. But seeing the photo with the gun pointed on the dog's head gives me another thought or view of the picture -<span style="font-weight: bold;"> that it actually HAPPENS in REAL LIFE - in the streets of Project 2, in Quezon City; in Cebu, even in Tanjay!</span> (LOL)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Humans could be this bad. Below is the photo.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_bk_eELkEYp9vkK3b4zj1tPA6k7Pet7IIuUZnp6tof5CdnmNLH4zkXj-AWOp9KB0mSmbCc_Bwpt1zHlwG00YJO6bk6XhG4u8-I7pOK2CHSU_L3HyTAOp0LMIdM7PIw1TMYcGP51reOos/s1600-h/national-lampoon-73.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_bk_eELkEYp9vkK3b4zj1tPA6k7Pet7IIuUZnp6tof5CdnmNLH4zkXj-AWOp9KB0mSmbCc_Bwpt1zHlwG00YJO6bk6XhG4u8-I7pOK2CHSU_L3HyTAOp0LMIdM7PIw1TMYcGP51reOos/s320/national-lampoon-73.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280348264884457746" border="0" /></a><br />There have been many people raising up against the unethical treatment of animals around the world. As a matter of fact, I know alot of them. Some, even encouraged me to join too!<span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);"> But the challenge isn't as easy as it sounds. <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);">B</span></span>earing the membership, or the name, "vegetarian" (those who are not into eating meat but veggies for the sake of either loosing weight/being healthy or pathetically, to lessen the "animal crimes"), demands the challenge of being a lifetime <span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">pro-vegetable, anti-meat!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Pero Pinoy ako eh</span>. I eat meat and chicken like most Filipinos but still entertains the possibility that someday, I could survive eating fish, milk and rice the whole time, not only for the purpose of keeping myself fit, but to really stand up for being <span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">PRO-ANIMAL!</span><br /><br />I have a number of friends who have actually stood up on being a vegetarian. A friend of mine, Mark, is a <span style="font-weight: bold;">Vegan</span>. My Bacolodnon<span style="font-style: italic;"> foster Ate</span>, Ms. Megan Villanueva is a <span style="font-weight: bold;">pescatarian</span>, PLUS, <span style="color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">she has survived this far without the presence of coffee in her house, or anywhere else!</span><br /><br />But for those intrested like me, we should be carefully eductated with the nature of its course. Here, I've pasted the 6 most popular and leading types of vegetarians in the world:<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 204, 204);">A </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 204, 204);">Pescatarian</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 204, 204);"> is occasionally used to describe those who abstain from eating all meat and animal flesh with the exception of fish. </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 204, 204);">Flexitarians</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 204, 204);"> are those who eat a mostly vegetarian diet, but occasionally eat meat. Vegans do not eat meat of </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 204, 204);">any kind and also do not eat eggs, dairy products, or processed foods containing these or other animal-derived ingredients such as gelatin.</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 204, 204);"> Other types of vegetarian diet</span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 204, 204);"> include Lacto-ovo Vegetarian</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 204, 204);">, </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 204, 204);">Raw Vegan, and Macrobiotic.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(102, 204, 204);">So, ANO... I DARE YOU!!</span><br /><br />But know what, I find the vegetarians who abstain from eating meat for the sake of saving these animals pathetic in clinging on to what they believe because whether they win a thousand of people who would follow them and their beliefs, still... a huge number of people around the world shouts for meat.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It's 7:30 in the evening now, my tummy is half empty, and starving. And just like them, in my mind i see some meat served on t</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">he table when I come home from this office. </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">uhu. Mukang di talaga pwede! </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">=)</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA4d0yAhpjdtaKlyymSPRw_wvfRPtcZPfCo9-kqpwOwWR6hY6dyDa6y2MMKhTjn9Jdhmdj9tcBjx8lbEQSChn0gaKdMLs0nhfEwQ0JA5WkQ9058_ZsoU72yxw9OWc8zC349S15i_4UUwM/s1600-h/2.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 145px; height: 47px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA4d0yAhpjdtaKlyymSPRw_wvfRPtcZPfCo9-kqpwOwWR6hY6dyDa6y2MMKhTjn9Jdhmdj9tcBjx8lbEQSChn0gaKdMLs0nhfEwQ0JA5WkQ9058_ZsoU72yxw9OWc8zC349S15i_4UUwM/s320/2.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280608890092464578" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 204, 204);">-Royalty Bisyoso</span></div>Joel CJ Senico Abahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07390097411789856410noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5545712831179059918.post-38404307710628670452008-12-15T20:08:00.000-08:002008-12-15T21:42:56.853-08:00The Spirit of Christmas, and FriendshipsIt's Christmas time almost, and I still can't find a time talking about significant and readable stuff on the net yet, until I finally get things done at school. Well, my week was utmost fine and my comrades and I are quite happy of the more specific "course" we have at school this time. From the name "management student," we now call our selves with this seemingly long tag, "Bachelor of Science in Business Administration major in Human Resources Development Management student," for a more specific title, as amended by CHEd National.<br /><br />But these photos you're gonna see aren't about my school stuffs or about the shitty I've just told you, but about our wacky and absolutely fun outreach program in Friendship homes. Photos with the children coming really soon.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMOH-TXIGRffl0UonR_88rbDSzOiaz5gFGiJ9NON7PUsvdonMbwiOmpq6CoXm0qobQybb83BneBZU_BckogAbLTHES-hmA4s9dmYgg9ggtcm_8wKaOfDK4FMliwqGuGyviFPEoWS7v9uc/s1600-h/DSC07123.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMOH-TXIGRffl0UonR_88rbDSzOiaz5gFGiJ9NON7PUsvdonMbwiOmpq6CoXm0qobQybb83BneBZU_BckogAbLTHES-hmA4s9dmYgg9ggtcm_8wKaOfDK4FMliwqGuGyviFPEoWS7v9uc/s320/DSC07123.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280236026015498946" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjatmm8f5SUPhEmFW89oOwuEesZNAtb0xZCv_PZs8m4EGSJtWRO0Rr9m1JI_NKgE9dBdOjDGW-g6NTQSoLow-pKsUYcaVa0XVcoTMUiYG_JS_4xf2HJCne3uvX0bKyNA6Hgoq2Sado0jN0/s1600-h/DSC07130.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjatmm8f5SUPhEmFW89oOwuEesZNAtb0xZCv_PZs8m4EGSJtWRO0Rr9m1JI_NKgE9dBdOjDGW-g6NTQSoLow-pKsUYcaVa0XVcoTMUiYG_JS_4xf2HJCne3uvX0bKyNA6Hgoq2Sado0jN0/s320/DSC07130.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280236129890078818" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJMCtFuRVi7IEHIBBaoU0Rk36j_h1B5PFvXa2_PXQoGNvKVgTqQQOcV3ySP2Ui7fZinQ-v3gohHh8EJStAcH-k7jaJw-zfJueaaGWZDzsiTq9CuBJ-PlDgIUU4cnOMhoW9me7We7AfYS4/s1600-h/DSC07082.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 295px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJMCtFuRVi7IEHIBBaoU0Rk36j_h1B5PFvXa2_PXQoGNvKVgTqQQOcV3ySP2Ui7fZinQ-v3gohHh8EJStAcH-k7jaJw-zfJueaaGWZDzsiTq9CuBJ-PlDgIUU4cnOMhoW9me7We7AfYS4/s320/DSC07082.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280235831980612658" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikGyYyCZ1dYLf4K83ZxfLHGF-Nr8nwOo2TuJa9tMjCFbhp41rrMtwv31gcEpXbQHOfidquMTOhEmmDrPrn7EsHuWum9BIOaqE64iZ1R-MvsNrQ2Lq5z_yY2waLRz7j4v4evUalJjdj1Ok/s1600-h/DSC07079.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 315px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikGyYyCZ1dYLf4K83ZxfLHGF-Nr8nwOo2TuJa9tMjCFbhp41rrMtwv31gcEpXbQHOfidquMTOhEmmDrPrn7EsHuWum9BIOaqE64iZ1R-MvsNrQ2Lq5z_yY2waLRz7j4v4evUalJjdj1Ok/s320/DSC07079.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280235584329409890" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5S4oxij5qZtUBkeGQwUVBiQbmVKMmTw3XQUGyA1WccOTBQXd4exJ0gSQvTtV_VoUYN-b3r-WWUzE6VunBtIH8NGj46rrH7wpRHPN1ET9sSihifEwVKkvOxMkkWDZLrGDrEn0WvNfybA/s1600-h/DSC07140.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 177px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5S4oxij5qZtUBkeGQwUVBiQbmVKMmTw3XQUGyA1WccOTBQXd4exJ0gSQvTtV_VoUYN-b3r-WWUzE6VunBtIH8NGj46rrH7wpRHPN1ET9sSihifEwVKkvOxMkkWDZLrGDrEn0WvNfybA/s320/DSC07140.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280236248686475874" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpN9qrUmeoDs5MoEc_TzPyjTE3qvHBv7k3W36qrln7-oNErH-JDmV5s0rPnFv-SvMvC2jwL_eJgJuTHiQM5TZtLE1VjJuUb59MtXlrlWZ1SwYaqnjkl96pqUCbiu2HTpBiE01IQAmEg1c/s1600-h/DSC07118.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpN9qrUmeoDs5MoEc_TzPyjTE3qvHBv7k3W36qrln7-oNErH-JDmV5s0rPnFv-SvMvC2jwL_eJgJuTHiQM5TZtLE1VjJuUb59MtXlrlWZ1SwYaqnjkl96pqUCbiu2HTpBiE01IQAmEg1c/s320/DSC07118.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280235948781951874" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYUCXEo60LXNKgldEvgHPjq0elon1gzarMPIXFFfRXcgtdCta4yc2ZOw_RllKsitfp5JfLtBbTubvrEzr53YAMTI5ciPZrQoC68p_2Mmw91bvHm2Z-xVNmu-5fx8i-yZeb5chDSG4HQs/s1600-h/DSC07160.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 142px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYUCXEo60LXNKgldEvgHPjq0elon1gzarMPIXFFfRXcgtdCta4yc2ZOw_RllKsitfp5JfLtBbTubvrEzr53YAMTI5ciPZrQoC68p_2Mmw91bvHm2Z-xVNmu-5fx8i-yZeb5chDSG4HQs/s320/DSC07160.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280236786760782226" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJuqYduOhyphenhyphenRhKbyzmam7Os4Nv_4AUYGBZYVjCIGuc1HTnTC0kBhIA9CeV3svKIu7CN6y7btJNc352ZSPSKMrd7BtZdmMeZvOUfzO36EzA7UFxi3wgangOIUyaufcw6aJSaui_mhpZM5to/s1600-h/DSC07143.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 145px; height: 209px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJuqYduOhyphenhyphenRhKbyzmam7Os4Nv_4AUYGBZYVjCIGuc1HTnTC0kBhIA9CeV3svKIu7CN6y7btJNc352ZSPSKMrd7BtZdmMeZvOUfzO36EzA7UFxi3wgangOIUyaufcw6aJSaui_mhpZM5to/s320/DSC07143.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280236936860626738" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJrUBRnKuXs-BOMKC5lRSXiDiIO_TQgK4nLxdbKxUt2LEFCyeKapdRhUYl2RfcRj8VS9S1ZCx1OOz_GUwv5aS3idlJzl9-7EpisVLxZqkloNbw_xKlaZp3olv14FTCFRwmW5S1c8SWZ8/s1600-h/DSC07141.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJrUBRnKuXs-BOMKC5lRSXiDiIO_TQgK4nLxdbKxUt2LEFCyeKapdRhUYl2RfcRj8VS9S1ZCx1OOz_GUwv5aS3idlJzl9-7EpisVLxZqkloNbw_xKlaZp3olv14FTCFRwmW5S1c8SWZ8/s320/DSC07141.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280236379241887138" border="0" /></a>Joel CJ Senico Abahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07390097411789856410noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5545712831179059918.post-2875242610545874922008-12-07T17:38:00.000-08:002008-12-15T00:22:39.987-08:00Losing Hope, and Grip.As I drive home, tears run down my cheeks. I almost feel the weight of my skin over me, and my head starts to numb, and so as my heart. I am caressed by the strong winds of early December nights, with its pleasant coldness that wraps me, but in discomfort.<br /><br />I drove fast, as my body and face meets the cold air that didn't care most, as if the strength of both hands and the speed are both oblivious to me.<br /><br />I was aware I was crying hard, and long. My breath is in tension, as if I couldn't grasp for the air that's more than enough for me to take.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; FONT-STYLE: italic">I pitied myself for trusting a love ideal. I pitied myself for trusting my heart, again.</span><br /><br />As I drove fast, I didn't even noticed the small groups of people on the side of highways looking at my ill-fated face, my melancholic but angst-looking facade, with the tears flowing freely from outside, and inside my heart.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7LHZ3ZI5fLKAOKclq3PzJ69AanIuPtEuv4UTeOpp1PcZ2ssi26tmd7q1WY5ijkKSgA5t1uzJ8prNHt5subDNOSLCibVXLstyc-BTTyiTyVLn6kkn2C2Qaa4FYAx21bM2BZ-iGxIN0GHk/s1600-h/nwqww+copy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277688177200040098" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 391px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 224px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7LHZ3ZI5fLKAOKclq3PzJ69AanIuPtEuv4UTeOpp1PcZ2ssi26tmd7q1WY5ijkKSgA5t1uzJ8prNHt5subDNOSLCibVXLstyc-BTTyiTyVLn6kkn2C2Qaa4FYAx21bM2BZ-iGxIN0GHk/s320/nwqww+copy.jpg" border="0" /></a> I hated it. I hated everything that surrounds me that night. It was the moment I never wanted to happen again... or the moment, I expected not to happen again. I can see the city streets, and they all reminded me of the few sacrifices I've made like strolling downtown, spending time with the one I loved the most, or even driving on rainy season in wet clothes.<br /><br />I almost can't believe I loved this way. I can't believe it's all happening to me now, and it's all happening again. I came asking as I drive. Why can't I be happy? Why has love been too unfair and greedy to me? Why am I living like this? -- WHY AM I LIVING?<br /><br />The last time I knew, I loose grip over my motorcycle in a speed of 80 kilometers per hour, and freeing myself from below, leaving my motorcycle in somewhere away from my body as it lies with me in nowhere. I see people around me, and I just lied down, feeling the waters and mud, imagining I've died and now raising up to the sky, greeting the air and the stars around.<br /><br />I was brought to the hospital, for the first time through some unknown and good people, and I woke up with the face of my sister smiling at me with her eyes in extreme pity of me.<br /><br />Nobody knew what exactly happened and what the reason is of driving fast that night was. Only you, readers are the ones who know this. I asserted I was drunk, but I really was not as the doctor was saying.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">But I never wished to die. I maneuvered the motorcycle so as not to hurt myself more. I want to give myself a lesson, physically hurt myself a little because If I cry more and more, I'm only hurting my heartbreak-shattered heart -- and I know my body can take it longer, but my heart can't.</span><br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Perhaps, I've gone numb of all these and this time, after the fateful accident, I'll never love again.</span>Joel CJ Senico Abahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07390097411789856410noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5545712831179059918.post-77784788377711240572008-11-30T22:57:00.000-08:002008-12-15T00:23:49.463-08:00Introducing, my Partner in Crime.<span style="COLOR: rgb(204,204,204)">Before you read on, allow me to clarify: </span><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(204,204,204)">I AM NOT INTO DANCESPORT</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(204,204,204)">. </span><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(204,204,204)">=)</span><br /><br />The recently concluded University dancesport competitions in NORSU is worth not only for a simple come-and-watch but its really worth the watching-all-over-again. But it's not only because the competitors blew our minds and put us all in great and awestruck hush in our amazement, but simply because the "she" won it ALL OUT!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdIKbXWCjhGr4ZQFcF-34u5I667UpdRbYFYaOBjOK7RYA_5XYN259uThbhLD2Y_5VYp6uCCovFjGenr8B9lnS2Lz5MUN4T4x4LhxhGdKeJkRDc5c1Bobwx71WG7uyXzixFgaf7xGqp8lM/s1600-h/DSC00440.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274734843758840098" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 303px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdIKbXWCjhGr4ZQFcF-34u5I667UpdRbYFYaOBjOK7RYA_5XYN259uThbhLD2Y_5VYp6uCCovFjGenr8B9lnS2Lz5MUN4T4x4LhxhGdKeJkRDc5c1Bobwx71WG7uyXzixFgaf7xGqp8lM/s320/DSC00440.JPG" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiekfC-3FY1dkLXxMvy5mDntRFfLbLc5rnK9oBuaD7dfHk1nV7B4FnplIQbGo3WdscTC6RLIh4pk0NZNemGR0VlRQi2WW5Xq_HyrxL-y5EgI5E-pU0mrtQc3STIL6M11x9w7Ad-aSwQ_Sk/s1600-h/DSC00462.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274734202008564962" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 154px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 286px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiekfC-3FY1dkLXxMvy5mDntRFfLbLc5rnK9oBuaD7dfHk1nV7B4FnplIQbGo3WdscTC6RLIh4pk0NZNemGR0VlRQi2WW5Xq_HyrxL-y5EgI5E-pU0mrtQc3STIL6M11x9w7Ad-aSwQ_Sk/s320/DSC00462.JPG" border="0" /></a> <div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />These two friends of mine showed me what real dancing is. I may not be into dancing, but watching them groove, i guess I'd be into working in for a practice hopefully.<br /><br />Michelle was desperate to make it that she even had a hard time convincing me to invite Michael, Dennis and Bryan, my three close friends from outside. Good thing they win, else, I'd get into a shameful situation. =) =)<br /><br />But it was a special and pensive night to me and my bestfriend, because I know how much she loves dancing.. She may have proved to many how great she could be. But being her bestfriend, I know there's really much more to say.<br /></div><br /><div>Here's a picture of her that I've kept a hardcopy in my closet:</div><div> </div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274720657702427602" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 160px; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtb_njCZB_K4ERL8WjFqV_57uLokQ1kHzeu2sFMfWYXldE1z_9FupKBdiQwm9CMHGOerykSM8Zx7e4-HlwG7sAJ26Tfo3oNjejdCblwVTWnQVkqmVl_SN-uk48eHEEzc1tP86WLU3nRVw/s320/1_966097524l.jpg" border="0" /> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyGaIC6-SfTPJqz4GGjutxrAfEBn7Tz9GGdjJKqpy-5_T3C7dP5iSGFA8cy2VYLGttglrzSLSuCHVne119-FdJjGhpHWJNCfW2HmvEFZFas8Ip1OdMfko9OaN2y6eVS1nb7q_w47y7VtQ/s1600-h/1_711254687l.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274720436119489730" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 165px; HEIGHT: 241px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyGaIC6-SfTPJqz4GGjutxrAfEBn7Tz9GGdjJKqpy-5_T3C7dP5iSGFA8cy2VYLGttglrzSLSuCHVne119-FdJjGhpHWJNCfW2HmvEFZFas8Ip1OdMfko9OaN2y6eVS1nb7q_w47y7VtQ/s320/1_711254687l.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br />She's my partner in crime. She knows both the dimmest and lightest side of me. We share the same thoughts that in fact, we need no word to say but just a wink of an eye, an expression on the face and a gesture to relay a message. <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">I would have become Michelle Eleccion If I were a girl. =)</span><br /><div><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><br />We talk like there's no tomorrow and we see each other as If we've not see each other for a very long time</span>. She's even been mistakenly tagged as my girlfriend for the Nth time now.<br /><br />Before, i was think there is nothing really special with this beautiful woman except the fact that she knows how to dance. But there is something that puts us in place together - something really the same that makes us stop after long hours of talking about almost everything and say, and we obliviously chorus, "Bestfriend jud tikaw."</div><div></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglu3cprFzmTs2CdgG1FdrBPZbHxudxsMZBQXo6ttRQ8ubV5g8vtaEKqpTwKkBfknFSlCNEptT6tSF1UhIaMiK-kzlLfBQWE5dlQecytBVYWRCOpgogPzTsAlo5onW1DHt3ladiR5tX1sU/s1600-h/Untitled-1+copy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274753922783539762" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 225px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 187px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglu3cprFzmTs2CdgG1FdrBPZbHxudxsMZBQXo6ttRQ8ubV5g8vtaEKqpTwKkBfknFSlCNEptT6tSF1UhIaMiK-kzlLfBQWE5dlQecytBVYWRCOpgogPzTsAlo5onW1DHt3ladiR5tX1sU/s320/Untitled-1+copy.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">My bestfriend's beauty and grace speaks of her intelligence and talent, and her intellig</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">ence and talent speaks of her generosity and wisdom. </span><div><br />And for that, "Bes, " NORSU system's dancer, (ehehe) I count you one of the best women of my life.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div>"I am just sooo proud of yah!"<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="COLOR: rgb(102,51,0)" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLasZpN-ugGhUhBmh05xMfX4PjlIOE1mqkFjDcGpj5lrBjJG9ftoNcyoMqA_0wUpJ3hKxBd3yVGr4-dfHpkX8StxPOlpNf3n3JdIiR6fvuxEc-Gdj-acqnHukjk0YAKG58N8LFFC7xiGo/s1600-h/FREEEE.jpeg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274754177740299698" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 160px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 52px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLasZpN-ugGhUhBmh05xMfX4PjlIOE1mqkFjDcGpj5lrBjJG9ftoNcyoMqA_0wUpJ3hKxBd3yVGr4-dfHpkX8StxPOlpNf3n3JdIiR6fvuxEc-Gdj-acqnHukjk0YAKG58N8LFFC7xiGo/s320/FREEEE.jpeg" border="0" /></a><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(102,51,0)">Royalty ambisyozo</span><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(102,51,0)">Copyright 2008</span> </div></div>Joel CJ Senico Abahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07390097411789856410noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5545712831179059918.post-57178505122553047822008-11-30T22:13:00.000-08:002008-11-30T22:17:19.354-08:00Bisyoso Ako!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6vu_ax2tT4mUzbG42C6fJQ8KzsEnk9HzsaVm-sJtCOd3OZMksE9GbSWVBPkbAlyW2dLTMho6Wy73Eh8gLVUW6q15maY3B2hYbT2aH6PKWdLfe1nmlfHw9hU9WypQXDucHdzZNJ6ulxrs/s1600-h/FREEEE.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 52px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6vu_ax2tT4mUzbG42C6fJQ8KzsEnk9HzsaVm-sJtCOd3OZMksE9GbSWVBPkbAlyW2dLTMho6Wy73Eh8gLVUW6q15maY3B2hYbT2aH6PKWdLfe1nmlfHw9hU9WypQXDucHdzZNJ6ulxrs/s320/FREEEE.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274701329352281698" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Ambiyoso is finally here!</span><br /><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: arial;">Aside from blogroyalty web logs, I have just created another blogsite (this one) to relinquish the other side of my personality through my postings, aside from being a royalty (kuno) in my own light. The 3 words that just spurred from my mind while typing this posts are, perhaps, enough to distinguish and describe myself, as a being, entirely:<br /><br /><b>Ambigious.</b> <i>I'm gonna crack it!</i> My being is somehow vague to most people who knew me. Some are puzzled of even the most commonly observable attitudes and character that I possess. Ambiguous - in the sense that I have, for all these days, kept alot of things that I have reserved and kept. And this time, in this page, I shall open it all up.<br /><br /><b>Ambitious. </b><i>Not a bad thing! </i>Nothing to really explain further. I have been sinking into an obsessively illusive dream of being a royalty, and that, alone, speaks how ambitious i could get.<br /><br /><b>Vicious.</b> <i>A bad, good thing. </i>Vice or being vicious for me does not necessarily mean <span class="sensecontent">having the nature or quality of vice or immorality as merriam webster defines it. But I could be dangerously aggressive, or marked by violence or ferocity.. My vice though is marked by being obsessively ambitious and i'm definitely thinking much (a vice) of dreaming of many things that may come along the way in the near tomorrow.</span><br /><br /><span class="sensecontent">Yeah, those three things do speak of me. Whatever it is... I can't write something here anymore.</span><br /><span class="sensecontent">I'm ambiguously, ambitiously, vicious. BE COOL!</span></p>Joel CJ Senico Abahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07390097411789856410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5545712831179059918.post-80765156896575363122008-11-18T01:51:00.001-08:002008-11-30T22:18:17.192-08:00Why Can't Love be Fair?<blockquote> My bestfriend CeeJ never learned his lesson - never to get too attached to an uncertain love. But he was too sure it was the love he was needing in his lifetime, even changing his entire life was the harshest thing he has decided upon, after hearing the words, "Let's just be friends."<br /></blockquote><br /><br />He gave up. Perhaps, just almost. But seeing him bruised and scathed, I think he had just given everything up - his life, his time, his priorities to have a love perfect. He has told me often about how happy he was - like how eloquent he delivered his report at school, or how grateful he was with his newly styled haircut (even if it looks like the worst Halloween hairdo).<br /><br />But he was the happiest person I've known. He was good to his friends, even good as a person, as a student, as a son. But I learned from him that not all good people get good lives.<br /><br />But lately, there was a different story I have heard - it was as If my bestfriend was seeing someone that i guess, he was extremely sure of. He admitted that she was different among all he have had loved. That time, I came into believing that my bestfriend has finally found that one true love. I came into believing that not all his stories closes in a tear-jerking stage drama.<br /><br />He have tried and failed, and then failed, and failed again.<br /><br />Time shifted its path again for my bestfriend that I even get tired of all his seemingly unending stories. I heard enough of what Ceejay has to say. I was his soul-partner. He talks to me like there's no tomorrow. He taps my back when he wants to say something or even question me again, "Why can't love be fair?"<br /><br />But I always believed in him. For my bestfriend, forgetting her is the hardest thing to do but he knows that forgetting her won’t be the hardest by the time he rebuilds his life again.<br /><br />How lucky I am for not having experienced love at all even if I look pretty gorgeous.<br /><br /><br />-Oozer, the ambitious motorcycleJoel CJ Senico Abahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07390097411789856410noreply@blogger.com0