and if life has failed you, leave the cross you're nailed to



listen to my songs
they sing about you
skim the notes
sink in the beat
they cry about you
scream the words
beat the beat
this life dies without you


ink on paper

ink on paper

i shall write about you. about your perfect flaws, your adorable little idiosyncrasies, about your mood swings. i shall pen our conversations, our fights and our tenderness, all written down. ink on paper.

and when it is time i shall put flames to these pages, unread. and send them home to you.

[pens are parker urban matte black and a prototype sonic screwdriver pretending to be a pen.]




secrets come out at night exchanged by people who hardly see each other but know one another. secrets exchanged in confidence and never questioned. just accepted in silence and hopefully understood. i like these secrets that reveal a little of a person’s soul. it takes a lot to show someone else even a small part of one’s real self and its such a relief that in those rare times one doesn’t have to bleed for it.




“This will end.”

I know. But this is also now. And I am enjoying it.

Silence blankets them like a refuge and just before the sun escapes the horizon,



got lost

got lost

I got lost. I was looking for you and I got lost. I was looking for your reflections, even for your shadows during dusk. And I thought I saw a glimmer of your light and so I followed it through the shades and streets. I got carried away by the music and the waters and the clouds covered the beacon stars and I got lost. Then, waking to a dream, I saw you with your squinty eyes and mischievous smile, and you led me back.

I didn’t want to wake up.


in passing



She walks in with a deeply thoughtful face like she was carrying half of the world’s pains and sadness. She sits at the far end of the table, closes her eyes and gives a long sigh. She opens her eyes just as the waitress is placing a cold glass of water in front of her. She tries to stare down the glass like some pet. She finally notices me staring. She offers a faint smile of acknowledgement and brings out a familiar book — The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy.

I have the same book in my backpack.

The heart skips a beat and I take a quick deep breath. She notices me looking at her book and slightly raises her eyebrows in question. I take out my well-worn and dog-eared copy of the book and show it to her. She flashes a wide and surprised smile. She looks at me. From across the table I see can her attempting to read me. I look back, matching her stare. Black eyes. Wide eyes. Beautiful eyes.

She finally looks away and stares back at her glass of water. She gives out a sigh that sounded like infinite relief. She closes her eyes, relaxes her shoulders, and slowly sits back in her chair. I keep staring at her closed eyes. At her. I finally notice my heart racing like tomorrow will never come.

I was still looking at her when she opens her eyes and looks at me with tenderness like I’ve never known tenderness before. Then the tenderness is slowly replaced by sadness. She closed her eyes once more, gathered her things and stood up to leave. She walks slowly towards my side of the table and stops in front of me . With a wane smile she reaches out to my arm and give it a soft squeeze that felt infinitely familiar.

I belatedly notice the gold band around her finger as I watch the love of this life reluctantly walk out the door.

[ written at The Curator, 26 June 2015 ]


would have

would have

It would have been fun getting to know you. I imagine new cafés with long, lazy and happy conversations, easy walks on late afternoons. Never hurried, never rushed because brilliant discoveries always take their time. And you would have been a brilliant discovery.

photo from March 2015, Bataan


lost conversations

Lost Conversations

Words float across the table. Kind words rarely harsh words. Stories of the moment, of forever, of now. The stories change and grow and evolve over time. With fingers entwined across the table sending words of tenderness, telling stories of affection. There are also words of quiet comfort, silent words of familiarity. And then there is this. Lost words. Silent tales. Conversations we will never have. Hidden across the table are our lost conversations.

Photo from March 2015


Again, it’s the content.

Again, its the content.I have posted this a couple of times before that I feel I’m preaching already — people go to websites for its content, how the website looks or presents itself comes in second. When I read a post on a site I would remember what it said a few weeks or months from now. I will vaguely remember how the page looked but I would remember its message. Some people still don’t get it.

“at the end of the day, its doesn’t really matter if this picture is higher by 2 millimeters from the top of text column beside it. what matters is that they saw the picture and was able to read what you have to say.”

“you don’t eat the container. you eat the ice cream”, raising her pint.

If you want to read the whole post follow this link.

Now, where’s my rum raisin …


too early one morning

when you find magic you hold on to it for as long as you can, for as long as it allows you to. so hang the feathers along with the twinkly stars and the white flowers, pour the wine and listen to the conversation and the music, brush her skin and hold her hand or just hold her. let the moment stay. let yourself be content. allow yourself to be happy.

— the song is blood by the middle east, the video is of james and aubrey tying the knot, real life.

James and Aubrey from Geoff Boothby on Vimeo.


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