fathersforgottendaughter

[fathersforgottendaughter]

Tren Al Sur 𖤛

[fathersforgottendaughter]

all this anger was once l❀ve

⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⑦. 🍁 𒍭 ✿𖩯

[fathersforgottendaughter]

⁺˚* ･ ✧ . ﾟ* ˖ . ⸰͏͏ ❀ ⁺˚* ･ ✧ . ﾟ* ˖ . ⸰͏͏͏͏ ❀ ⁺˚* ･ ✧ . ﾟ* ˖ . ⸰

[fathersforgottendaughter]

'wag mo akong titigan nang ganiyan, baka tuluyan kong ibigay sa'yo lahat ng ninanais mo, lahat-lahat ng mga nagpapaligaya sa'yo, 'yong mga bagay na partikular na pumipinta ng ngiti sa iyong mala-rosas na mga labi dulot ng lip gloss na ibinigay ko sa'yo bilang—wala, ginusto ko lang talagang ibigay 'yon kasi naisip kong babagay ito sa'yo, at tama nga ang naging hinala ko. lahat bumabagay sa'yo, marahil ay ako rin? biro lang (seryoso ako).

pero sa totoo lang, gift-giving yata ang aking love language. maaari bang ang susunod kong ireregalo ay ang isang hangal na katulad ko na nakabalot sa laso? ito ba'y tatanggapin mo? biro lang ulit (seryoso nga ako).

nang sumapit ang dapit-hapon, habang tayo'y naglalakad pauwi galing sa eskwelahan—pagod at pawisan (ngunit para bang ang puso ko'y gumagaan dahil ika'y aking kalakbay)—napatanong (na naman) ako. "anong gusto mo?"

nawa'y sabihin mong ako.

Loren, Ako Nalang Sana (33524)

[fathersforgottendaughter]

kuhang-kuha mo na ang kabuuan ko, ano pa bang gusto mo? (sabihin mo lang nang mabigay ko)

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎nawa'y sabihin mong ako.

Loren, Marupok (32524)

[fathersforgottendaughter]

you were once that child. a child who thought they could give life to anything with a simple stroke of a paintbrush, albeit never as graceful as the artists whose graves you used to visit and pay respect to. a child who claimed to have witnessed rhythm bare naked. a child whose desire was to possess countless of voices in order to become one with harmony—a child who wanted to sing of beautiful melodies. but ever since then, you've been singing nothing but the blues, and your claim to have witnessed rhythm with your bare eyes was nothing but false testimony. indeed, you are still a child, but now with the soul of an old, worn-out hag. you hold not the paintbrush in your hands, but the crippling regrets of what you could have been. you possess not a single voice—the desire of possessing millions long dissipated.

but dear, oh dear, you are rotten regardless. fate is preposterous, and yet you used it to your advantage. a pathetic, adorable little justification for the life you've lived so far.

it was never you who picked the card of Jack; it was fate (was it?).

you were meant to be good—or at least capable—at everything, but never good enough (was it?).

you were fated to walk the path to your grave carrying nothing, akin to an empty can washed ashore (was it?).

in sooth, the bags were always too heavy for you, so you leave them on the side road along the way. you pick up only to toss. and by the time you lay on your deathbed, cold and lifeless, you will realize you have none to blame but yourself. not even fate.

Loren, The Jack-of-All-Trades. (32424)