stammering nonsense...

i hate for this to merely be a review for books i read but most of my life are filled with still realities breathing through innumerable pages.

i have just finished reading two books this morning: nicholas sparks' the rescue and milan kundera's unbearable lightness of being. i got the sparks book yesterday after shift from a coworker who left it to me even though i was really just joking when i borrowed it. i rarely read sparks and generally don't care much for romance novels. kundera's book, i was relishing word by word.

two so different genres...

i loved the unbearable lightness of being since the beginning. the plot is okei and not really that spectacular but the most beautiful thing in it is how it was written. it was written with the depth and introspection of poetry. there were certain parts in the book that struck me with so much beauty recognizing that truth in my own life: vertigo and falling, living in truth, rebellion...

...........

my sister wants to join the palanca. good luck to her. for weeks now, she has been asking me to do the same. she said i should try it, you'd never know what might happen. i steadily decline. too much hassle and i still doubt any hidden talent in writing that she stupidly thinks i may have. my sister is the writer in the family. i'm the eternal bookworm. i think she knows i also write but i have never let anyone of them read anything i've written. she is currently writing her anthology of ten poems and it is also currently scattered around the house. what i write is hidden in dirty dusty notebooks that doesn't usually see the light of the sun. i write with my soul bared and bled. she writes as if pulling words from the air.

anyway, i have thought of it once, but it the idea never crossed over to reality. i don't have enough guts and patience to go through with it. hehehehe

.........

i'm writing these things without actually giving a thought to them. catharthic writing...? freud's psychoanalysis included letting the patient just sit down or lie down comfortably in a couch and rant about anything that first comes to mind. the psychiatrist's work is just to keep the thoughts coming, like a river steadily flowing. somehow through that unintelligible and unconnected thoughts you begin to realize something about the personality of that person. like panning for gold in a river... most of the time you just get sand and stones.

one of my friends' dad died recently. i am not sure when. i want to be there for her but she's gone to bicol, her hometown, already. her mom died summer before my mom did. i think most of her siblings has families of her own now. the sad part is, he didn't even make it to her graduation coming up this march. tsk...

then i heard about another friend giving birth, but the baby didn't make it. he/she/it(?) never even had the chance to see what he missed.

thinking back on all deaths i have known, i wonder how great is the possibility that i am still alive to day and how sure am i that i still would be tomorrow...?

but then so what?